Haunting Temptation
by FairDrea
Summary: Movieverse - Lydia returns to Winter Rivers, an empty home, and an enraged poltergeist bent on destruction...or was it seduction? One look at what she's become and Beetlejuice isn't entirely sure revenge is what he's out for. Adult themes and language.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Hello all! Well, I've never stumbled into this fandom before but I LOVE Beetlejuice and was suddenly obsessed with the thought of writing a fic. Once I got started, it was almost like a drug that I just couldn't set down. I'm throwing this out as kind of a test – to see if I get any interest, to see if I step on any toes (unintentional, I promise) or to see if I'm out of my league. So enjoy! Let me know if I should continue on or if I should take a hike, lol.

**Disclaimer:** I do now own Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

**Chapter One: Home to Nothing**

Lydia Deetz walked through the empty house, her dark eyes scanning over remnants of her past, peaking out desolately from under a thin layer of dust. Adam's usual choice of music didn't fill the house. Barbara didn't move from room to room fussing over changes she couldn't make. They used to…but no longer. Now the house stood empty and deathly quiet. Her parents had long ago closed up the place, leaving yet another "vacation home" that would remain untouched behind and forgotten. And the Maitland's – her stomach clenched slightly – the Maitland's would no longer need this place. They'd been given a rare gift from Juno after years and years of paperwork and arguments. They'd been given the gift of freedom.

The couple had made contact with her only after the formalities had been finalized. It has been…what, a week ago now? It was hard to believe it had all happened in a matter of a week when the process itself to allow Adam and Barbra their freedom had taken years. She could still remember receiving the message – sitting in her two bedroom apartment, curled up on the couch with a glass of red while pouring through digitals from a recent photo shoot for a prestigious client. What to edit, what not to edit, what to throw out entirely…and then her television had flickered on. Just like that. The silence of the evening had been interrupted by the low hiss of static. White and black chased each other across the wide screen. She stared at it, a chill snaking its way over her skin. For a minute she had thought…

But then she heard the soft call of Barbara's voice. It wove its way through the steady drone of static, asking her to come home, saying it was important. Had it been Adam, she might have hesitated. Had it been any other poltergeist, she may have told them to piss off entirely. But it was Barbara and the woman had always been somewhat of a mother to her where Delia had failed. She had responded immediately to the breathy plea, dropping her camera on the couch and rushing to her room to throw some belongings in a bag before tearing out of the apartment.

The drive wasn't long from Hartford to Winter River – an hour and a half, an hour with the way she was driving. Something in the tone of Barbara's voice…something was off. It wasn't wrong…but it most certainly wasn't right.

As she drove, she tried to think of the last time she had visited. It had been…over four months ago at the least. It was slightly jarring to realize how her visits to the house had grown so scarce over the past year. It was the usual adult excuses – settling into her new life, just too busy, work-related things came up. Of course, they had. Her career in photography had taken off years ago. The demand for her work was high. And given the none-too-pleasant near envious reaction of her step-mother after Lydia's sudden fame for artistic flare through photography, Lydia hadn't exactly made it easy for anyone to contact her, living, dead or otherwise.

But she _had_ made visits. She had kept Barbra and Adam well informed of what was going on in her life from graduation, to college, to her new career. Over the course of ten years she had made sure that they knew probably more than her own father and step-mother would ever know.

Now though…now it didn't feel like it had been _near_ enough. With a sick twisting in her stomach, she moved from the part of the house was that predominantly her families to what had once been Adam and Barbara's. The only sound that accompanied her was the sharp, echoing click of her heels against the hardwood floor. The sound tore at her, made her feel a sickening sense of solitude in a home where she'd _never_ been alone. Hot tears momentarily blurred her vision as she stalled over the threshold to Adam and Barbara's rooms, the scent of modeling glue, paint and sawdust assailing her senses immediately. A trembling hand reached up, combing the length of her angled bob back and away from her pale face. Out of everything she had expected to come home to, out of every scenario she had turned over in her head….a funeral had not been one of them.

That's what it had been, though. Barbara's tone, the way it had slaked over her nerves and prompted a sudden and thoughtless move to throw a week's worth of clothes into a bag and just drive without thinking, the sense of unease…

Barbara had been calling her home for a funeral…._their_ funeral.

The ceremony, held just as the sun threatened to spill its bright rays over the thin blanket of snow shrouding the graveyard, had been brief – a ritual of sorts in the afterlife, performed in the very cemetery Adam and Barbara has been buried. There had been few words, a tearful goodbye between her and the two people she considered family. The man officiating had, oddly enough, been the same corpulent ghoul that had overseen the joke of a ceremony between her and…

She shook her head, scowling at the memory. She wouldn't think the name. She _couldn't. _Not right now – not when the feeling of loss was so consuming, not when her heart ached as much as the heart of the young woman who had come to this house had before meeting the Maitlands. She was alone…again. She was older, wiser, she was finally comfortable with who she was and confident in her work. But…she was…alone.

"Utterly…alone," she whispered harshly, remembering the naïve words of a young woman who'd so foolishly contemplated suicide as a means to an end.

She ran her fingers over the much expanded town model Adam had poured his soul into, smiling at the detail. He'd been such a perfectionist when it came to his project, asking every day if there were new establishments, new houses, or anything of the like being constructed. She whispered his name softly, then turned from the model and, with quick footsteps, left the room. Tomorrow she would come back here, try to clean up the dust left behind. Tonight…it would just be salt in an open wound.

With a shuddering sigh, she made her way upstairs to her old room. The second her hand touched the banisters, horrifying memories of the night the resident poltergeist had tormented her family came rushing back. She drew away as if the wood itself bad burned her, sucking in a startled breath. Her dark gaze remained fixed on the newel post, almost as if she were waiting for a replay, waiting for the serpentine skin to reappear, for the sadistic, feral glow of _his_ eyes.

And then another memory…this one more recent…and far more terrifying.

She had been home for Christmas break during her first semester in college. What was supposed to be a cheerful time of year for family gatherings and festivities became a true nightmare. And it was a nightmare that only she knew of. She hadn't breathed a word of it to anyone – not even Barbara and Adam.

The first night she had been home, she had been readjusting to her room, trying to ignore the distasteful hints at "better" décor Delia had left scattered about. And then he was just…there. In her mirror of all places, leering at her and leaning against the frame as if he'd been waiting for her.

"Beetlejuice," she whispered faintly, unaware of the word slipping past her lips. She stepped back, and once more until she felt the wall at her back. She sagged against it, her mind replaying a scene that should have never been.

He'd come to "seal the deal" as he so eloquently put it. She'd made a promise and had yet to hold up her end of the bargain. Her failure to do so had landed him in Afterlife purgatory.

"_You owe me."_

"_I owe you _nothing," _Lydia hissed, clenching her teeth and glaring. _

_Beetlejuice glared right back, his haunting onyx eyes burning. "Wrong, babes." He straightened and fear sliced through her. For one terrifying moment, she thought he would come through the very glass that held him. "We made a deal."_

"_If you're expecting me to hold up to my end of that deal, I feel the need to point out that you didn't exactly hold up to yours."_

"_Hey, they're still around, aren't they?"_

"_No thanks to you."_

"_Listen Lyds…a deal's a deal. You promised me a way out of this shit hole. Now deliver!"_

"_Or what?"_

"_Don't test me…"_

But she had. And her entire week had been full of him tormenting her, taunting her, threatening her. He'd been ruthless…and something inside of her, something that made her sick frightened and any other horrible emotion she couldn't put a name to…had craved it. At first she had thought there was just some kind of strange imbalance of spiritual energy sifting through the house that her overactive imagination and profound connection to the other world was feeding off of. And she fought it. She fought it just as hard as he had fought her. In the end…they'd both lost…miserably.

It took her a year – a full year to realize what the problem had been, why she had put herself in positions to be in the same room as him, why she didn't fight the nagging curiosity. It was her heart – her stupid, traitorous heart. A heart that had mystified her by falling for a…a crude, filthy, obnoxious, threatening _poltergeist_. That wasn't even normal!

_But then again…_

She sighed and pushed herself away from the wall, starting up the stairs once more. She never had been normal. Sure, she had tried. She had tried with good grades and semi-decent friends that she'd grown apart from after leaving for college. She had _tried_ to be normal and all that had resulted in was misery. She wasn't normal. She accepted that now. She was Lydia Deetz and after careful soul searching and self-discovery, she knew that she would never live up to what society deemed normal. Her two best friends, after all, were ghosts. And she was…irrevocably addicted to a poltergeist who had nearly destroyed her family, who had nearly killed her father, who had _forced_ her into a pathetic sham of a marriage. The words she could use to describe just how unholy and repulsive he was added up to an impressive list. So why, _why_ could she still remember the feel of his hand against her mouth, his arm pressing into her side and the shocking, horrifying way her skin had sizzled at the contact, the pleasant flip of her stomach, the initial knee-jerk reaction of lust slithering through her like a fiery snake.

"Damn it," she sighed, shoving the door to her room open. Her bag of belongings sat against the closet door which yawned into a half empty closet full of her old clothing. Having not taken the time to before, she stepped into it, looking over visual reminders of the girl she once was. Everything was black…black or varying shades of gray. She glanced down at what she wore now – a pair of fitted dark blue jeans that hugged her legs down to her ankles, stylish black boots that came to mid-calf, a deep red cowl neck sweater that brushed her thighs and a chunky black, lace and leather belt draped around her waist. Definitely not the same style as her younger self.

She turned from a closet full of confusing memories. A shower…that would help her feel better – wash off the tears, maybe scrub away at some of the lingering sorrow. Come to think of it, she hadn't showered in…what, three days now? With the sudden news and short amount of time she was able to get with Adam and Barbara before they passed on…the thought of showering hadn't really entered her mind.

She slid the belt free as she crossed the floor to the four poster bed opposite the closet. With a flick of the wrist, it landed at the edge, catching the footboard. Her sweater quickly followed and she continued out of her room and into the bathroom across the hall, pulling a towel from the hallway closet. She didn't bother shutting the door. She was the only one there. What was the point of shutting the door? After running the tap to a temperature just shy of scalding, she slipped out of her jeans and underwear, then stepped into the welcome steam with a long sigh.

She could feel the accumulated grime of the past few days wash off of her. Dropping her head back, she let it do just that, closing her eyes and trying not to think, not to remember. But everywhere the scalding water touched, every drop that rained over her and pelted her skin made her remember _his_ touch, the horribly lewd and inappropriate things he would say to her that would secretly make her body ache, the strange, haunting green tint in his dark eyes. With a muttered oath, she gave herself over to it, knowing there was no use trying to deny anything anymore. She was old enough and could no longer fall back on the excuse of teenage naivety. She was certainly smart enough to understand her own emotions, regardless of how twisted and confusing they were.

That didn't mean she couldn't be frustrated with said emotions. Glowering, she quickly washed her hair and finished with her shower, then threw the shower curtain back with an agitated jerk. She pulled the towel from the rack beside the shower, using it to towel off her face and hair. As she did so, she glanced up and went impossibly still. Her limbs were suddenly numb. And not just numb, but a cold, chill-you-to-the-bone numb that started from her fingertips and worked its way with frightening speed through the rest of her body. Her breath shuddered to a stop, her wide eyes fixated on the fogged over mirror. Rubbed into the steamy residue was a simple statement…a command. Fear and excitement rushed through her as she stood absolutely still, reading the words over and over in complete disbelief.

_Say it….I dare you._

She didn't. She couldn't. She could hardly think past the simple thought of "he's here." She clutched the towel to her chest. She was shivering…though whether it was from the chill of winter seeping in through the insulated walls or from the forbidden thrill of seeing the message, she didn't know.

_Lyyyydiiiiaaaa…._

She released a small, startled cry at the sound of her name being hissed. It sounded almost as if…as if it were floating along on the lingering tendrils of steam around her feet. She glanced down, half afraid she would be staring down into a shallow pool of blood or something far more vile…something more _him. _However, there was nothing.

The sound of the medicine cabinet being opened and slammed shut drew her attention back to the mirror and although she hated herself for it, she jumped and pushed herself back against the slick wall of the shower. The message was gone – replaced by a new one.

_You still owe me._

"I owe you shit," she muttered. Angrily, she wrapped the towel around her frail body and stalked out of the bathroom. God, she wasn't alone in the house. He was there…but how _there_ was he? Was he there like he'd been in Adam's model? Was he there like he'd been there in the mirror the last time she'd seen him? What were the boundaries…what were the rules? Her eyes narrowed speculatively and she quickly veered away from her bedroom, going for her father's old study instead. It may have been a long shot, but she was hoping the Handbook was still tucked into the middle drawer of her father's desk. Maybe it would have some answers…or….something. Something useful that would distract her from the disturbing tumult of emotions concerning the self-proclaimed "Ghost with the most."

She flipped on the desk lamp and pulled the drawer open, rummaging through discarded bills, paperwork and various notes on property that her father had left behind. "Where the hell is it…" she muttered. A few moments more of digging and a grin passed over her face as her hand brushed over the spine of a small tomb. "Got it."

Pulling the book free, she bumped the drawer shut with her hip and looked down at the rather dated illustration on the front cover. She could only hope that the contents would be slightly reassuring, even if the book was meant for the deceased.

A quick trip downstairs to fill a wine glass with red wine and she was back in her room. She set the glass on her nightstand, pulled the cord to turn the lamp on and quickly changed into a clinging black silk top and a pair of simple blue and green cotton panties. All the while, she couldn't help wondering…was he watching her? Was he seeing the woman she now was, the changes, the curves? She glared at the treacherous thoughts even as her blood ran hot and her stomach quivered almost pleasantly.

With a self-depreciating sigh, she combed her damp hair with agitated fingers and flopped down on her bed. A quick rummage through the discarded jeans at the side of her bed procured a lighter and cigarette. Settling back against the headboard, she flipped the Handbook open, propped it on her upturned knees, then lit her cigarette and exchanged the lighter for the glass of red patiently awaiting her attention.

Her eyes began to skim the words, half-interest quickly transcending into something that bordered dangerously on avid obsession.

_Tsk, tsk, tsk…what a filthy habit._

She snorted, not bothering to look up from her reading. "This coming from you. That's rich."

_Whacha readin' that for? Still lookin' to join the afterlife party?_

"Not even in the slightest."

She read on in blissful silence for only a moment, flipping through the pages faster, skimming sections that provided her with nothing helpful.

_Ya might want to ash that-._

This time she did glance up, startled to see her cigarette half-gone, the collected ashes teetering dangerously. She tapped it against the small ashtray beside her and took a drag, stretching her legs, letting the book lay open on her lap and forgotten for a moment. Her eyes scanned the empty room. "Thanks," she finally conceded.

_No prob. So what's the deal? House seems kinda empty-._

Lydia snorted softly, resting her head against the headboard. She must be going insane. Sitting alone in her room, talking to herself, hearing a voice she vaguely recognized from a past she was fighting to forget. _Just tired,_ she told herself, which was the truth. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep and tears. Still…she continued to talk, finding an odd comfort in her delusion. "You're dead. You should know all about what happened, shouldn't you?"

_Maybe…maybe not. Why don't ya tell me?_

She yawned hugely and allowed her eyelids to drift shut. "Adam and Barbara…" a bitter smile passed over her face. She chose to mock him, though she didn't understand why. "Dead, dead, deadski-."

_Smart ass._

"Must have picked it up from you-."

_Whatever. Always were a sadistic little death-stalking bitch._

She laughed softly. She'd been called worse…much worse. She ground out her cigarette, then reached over and placed the ashtray and now empty glass of wine on the nightstand. "Adam and Barbara were granted complete freedom. I came home for their…funeral," she muttered, sinking further into the pillows.

_Bummer…_

"Yeah…bummer," she intoned. Sleep clawed gently at her, tugging, lulling…until finally with a soft sigh, she succumbed.

The house settled, playing its usual creaking cadence and the furnace clicked, then hummed to life, vents in the hallway and in her room rattling softly. Lydia's brows drew together and she shifted to her side. At the foot of her bed, the thick quilt folded neatly took on a life of its own, levitating a scant breath away from the bed and sliding over Lydia's sleeping form.

_You've changed, kid…_

Her only response was a muffled sigh. Beside her, the chain on the lamp clinked lightly against the black lacquer lamppost. There was a soft, metallic grating sound as it was pulled by an unseen hand, and the room was plunged into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Hey guys! Well, looks like this wasn't a total bust! No one trying to burn me out of the fandom…yet, lol. To Udrianopel, inulover1993, BJL and Kidonia Shinji…thank you so much for your reviews and encouragement! I hope I continue to keep you guys interested! With this next chapter…what's written in Beej's point of view is quite a bit more crude than how I'm handling Lydia's POV. But I figured…its necessary for the character. He's not Lyds and his thought process differs INCREDIBLY. So the language is harsher, needless to say.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

**Chapter Two: Intriguing**

He drummed his red polished nails against the scarred surface of the table placed below a large, age-fogged mirror. His narrowed eyes watched the woman sleeping on the bed with a uncultivated mix of irritation, spite and curiosity. His mind was having difficulty wrapping itself around the fact that it was the same Lydia Deetz he'd known from years ago – the same one he'd threatened, the same one he'd tried to coerce into marriage, into owning up to her end of their little deal, the same one that had stood by with a dumb, vacant look on her face when that Maitland bitch had sicced a fucking sandworm on him.

A large beetle stupidly chose that moment to scuttle past him. Without taking his gaze from the woman, he slammed his hand down with much more force than necessary, effectively cutting the bugs life short. A quick toss and the oozing insect found its way into Beetlejuice's mouth where it was carelessly crunched on with only a modicum of the usual interest.

He leaned forward further, stopping just shy of pressing his nose against the cool surface of glass. Who _was_ she? The Lydia Deetz he knew was naïve. She held herself to morals far higher than most people he knew. Then again, most people he knew were dead and scoundrels in their own right. Those that weren't…they were boring and not entirely worth his time unless he was scaring the ever-loving hell out of them.

Lydia Deetz then? Small, slightly pitiful, dark and cryptic, easily manipulated by the dead. The few years that passed in between the night of their "wedding" and the time in which he visited her again to demand that she held up her part of their bargain hadn't done much of anything to change her. She had a bit more of a backbone but still held onto that image and the body of an underdeveloped teenager.

Lydia now? This smoking, drinking, cocky, self-assured…_woman_? She was something else. She had attitude, she had malice and he had a feeling she was only giving him a glimpse of just how much of each she had. And the body? He would have to be a goddamn blind eunuch to not appreciate the way that body curved in every single place that would drive a man insane. She was still pale, though not as sickly pale as she had been when she was younger. The dark circles under her eyes had vanished. Maybe she'd just been using make-up for that effect. Knowing the Lyds back then…it was a possibility.

She rolled over onto her back, moving one arm over her head. The glossy raven tresses slid like water away from her closed eyes. The silk top slid dangerously lower, pulling taut over her right breast.

"Fuck me…" he breathed, inching closer to the mirror.

Wait…what the hell was he doing? Lusting after _her?_ Lydia Deetz? The girl who owed him a one way ticket the fuck out of here and wasn't complying? He growled and shoved away from the mirror, spinning to face the vacant, cobweb draped confines of his room. The only lust-filled thoughts he should be having about her should be ones involving masochism, near-death, torture. Thoughts of tying her up, etching long, deep marks in her skin with a rusted over razor blade and taking in the sweet, seductive sound of her screams muffled by a piece of ducttape…NO…a strip of metal! That would be some freakin' poetic justice alright! Those are the kind of thoughts he should have been having.

Okay, maybe not quite that sadistic.

"Focus," he muttered to himself. He wasn't sticking around to kill her, or take some kind of sick, perverse joy from tormenting her in the grossly creative way possible. He may have been pretty bad a times…okay, at _most_ times. But he wasn't _that_ twisted. What he wanted with Lydia Deetz was what she had promised him. He wanted out. And he wasn't going to get out by threatening her, though the devil knew how badly he wanted to.

So torture was out, threatening was out…that left one thing. And that one thing left a sickeningly disgusting taste in his mouth. He sneered and snapped his fingers, summoning a bottle of beer and taking a long pull. Talking with a human. How the hell was he supposed to have a serious, worth-while conversation with someone who could still breathe? With someone that didn't understand what being dead was really like? With someone who, for all he knew, loathed his non-existence.

His feet left the ground and he crossed his legs, resting his elbows on them and letting his beer bottle hang lazily from his fingertips. The nails of his other hand drummed on the glass and he frowned as he thought, purposely ignoring that damned mirror. This entire fuckin' scenario was going to be tricky. He hated tricky. Tricks…yes. Tricky…not so much.

A soft, sultry moan drew his attention. He turned his head slowly, attempting to look bored for no one's benefit really but his own.

Lydia had turned on the bed and now lay curled on her right side. The quilt had slid from one long leg, exposing the limb to the hungry light of the moon. Her toenails were painted, he noticed. Not black, but a shimmering, feminine red. And there was simple band of silver around her second toe. She shifted again, flipping onto her back.

What the hell…he didn't remember her being such a restless sleeper.

The shirt crept up, revealing an indistinguishable tattoo riding just above her hipbone. He uncrossed his legs and levitated closer to the mirror, his interest piqued. As he tilted his head to the side, attempting to catch a better glimpse of the mark. It was then that she frowned, her full lips pursing, her dark brows lowering.

"Beetlejuice…."

His eyes went wide, one brow arching high. "Whaaa-?"

Another soft moan and she settled, snuggling into her pillow, the faintest of smiles erasing the consternation that had marred her delicate features only for a moment.

"Well," he murmured. A sinister grin curled his dry, cracked lips and his eyes albeit glowed with a feral light. Things had just gotten very, _very_ interesting

* * *

The sun violated her sleep, pulling her insistently from a night blissfully lacking any dreams. She screwed her eyes shut, willing the light to go away. Of course, it wouldn't. And the only way it would was if she forced herself out of bed and drew the thick drapes over the French doors, blocking it out. She would have to be awake for that. She didn't _want_ to be awake. For once she hadn't dreamt of him. Hadn't dreamt of his hands on her body, of his dry, dead lips on her flesh, she hadn't woke up slick with her own sweat, shaking, and frighteningly confused. She had just…slept.

_Wakey, wakey…_

"Piss off," she muttered, flipping onto her side and throwing her arm over her eyes.

_Shift a little more to the right and you're gonna make it a hell of a good mornin' for me, babes._

With a gasp, she sat up, her hands instinctively going to the hem of her shirt and yanking it down. She looked around wildly, hair hanging in her eyes, her cheeks flushed from a combination of sleep and mortification. The room was empty. No ghouls lurking in the corners, no grotesque smiling face in the mirror. She was completely alone.

"My God, I'm losing it…" she muttered, shoving her hair out of her face.

Throwing the blankets back, she swung her legs over the bed. It never struck her for one moment as she left her room that she hadn't pulled the blanket over herself the previous night to begin with. She padded downstairs and made a beeline for the coffee maker, stumbling to a stop when she saw it was already full.

"What the-." She slowly crossed the kitchen and placed her hand against the pot, jerking it back when she found it hot. Had she set the delay? No. That wasn't something she did unless she had to be up in the morning and wanted coffee ready. And this coffee maker…she couldn't remember if it had a delay function or not.

Gritting her teeth, annoyed over the fact that not only was there coffee ready for her but also that her suspicions concerning a certain ghost had been confirmed, she grabbed the pot and dumped the contents into the sink. As the darkened water sloshed nearly over the basin, she swore she could hear a soft cackling from behind her. Her shoulders tensed. Bracing one hand on the counter, she closed her eyes, took a fortifying breath, then set the pot in the sink and refilled it.

_What a waste of perfectly good coffee. I was just tryin' to be nice._

"Right," she muttered as she poured the water into the percolator, then dumped the grounds and refilled them. "Because that's what you're known for - being nice."

_I said tryin'._

"Try harder." She whirled around, eyes narrowed and studying the room. Empty. "Where are you?"

Silence stretched on into obscurity and again, she started to doubt her sanity. But the coffee…

She glanced back at the pot, watching the new coffee spill in a steady stream, the splash against the bottom of the pot the only sound. No, she hadn't had a thing to do with that. He was here.

"Just being a dick," she muttered, turning and pulling a coffee cup from the cabinet beside the sink. Again she heard the distant cackle, though this time she chose to ignore it. She filled her cup, then pulled up a seat at the kitchen table and sank into it.

Her spot gave her a direct view into the front rooms – the ones that had been reserved for Adam and Barbara. The early morning sunlight slanted over the floorboards, dust dancing along the bright beams. Thick dust. That probably wasn't the best thing. Then again, the entire house was in need of a good clean. Her father had hired help when they had first left the house shortly after Lydia had gone off to college. But after two years his attention to the process of selecting and paying decent help for upkeep of the house had become lax. It made her sad, to look upon something that had once been the personification of edgy home décor and see just how little her parents cared about maintaining it.

Though…if she were going to be fair, she couldn't really blame them. Once Lydia had selected her college, applied and been accepted, her parents eagerness to get the hell out of the house they had poured so much into had been obvious. They'd seen too much there, experience the paranormal and the horrors of the beyond to a point that even allowing Lydia to constantly interact with the Maitlands hadn't been something they were entirely comfortable with. The only thing that should have surprised her was the fact that it had taken three weeks instead of one for her parents to vacate the premises.

Using the chair opposite her as a foot rest, Lydia leaned back in hers and wrapped her hands around her mug. She didn't think her parents would ever sell. The house was too close to where she was for them to ever think about selling it. Though her and Delia were on the outs now, her father still kept the house open for her just in case she needed to "escape the city." However, if they did sell…there was no way anyone would show it in this condition. And the Maitlands things really should have been put into storage, not collecting dust like some unwanted past-life paraphernalia.

She tilted her head to the side, contemplating her options. Staying wouldn't be a horrible idea. It wasn't like she was needed in Hartford. A simple phone call to a local phone or satellite company and she could be hooked up with internet service which was all she really needed to run her business and keep in contact with her clients. She could stick around, clean up the house, take a much needed reprieve from the commotion of steady city activity. She could ensure that Adam and Barbara's things were cared for with the respect they deserved and put away in the house where they belonged, not shipped off to goodwill.

_You could see him...see if he really _is_ here._

She jerked up, gasping softly at the sudden, unexpected thought. No! He had nothing to do with her staying here. She wanted to take care of the house, of _her_ house. She wanted to make sure that Barbara and Adam's things were well taken care of. It had nothing, _nothing_ to do with that sadistic, crude, disgusting _ghost!_

_Keep telling yourself that,_ the treacherous voice murmured, sounding almost amused.

And she did. Throughout the remainder of the day, as she made phone calls to clients and local businesses to make arrangements, she forcefully reminded herself that she was not staying in the house just to be near what she was still debating was or wasn't a figment of her imagination. After an hour of arguing with herself, followed by an hour childish internal tantrums, she resigned herself to a simple dull mantra of "_not here for him, not here for him, not here for him" _as she set her own affairs straight and arranged time slots for satellite and internet connections, checked the propane level on the tank in the backyard and called the local distributor for a fill.

Satisfied that she had tied up every loose end, she stood in the foyer between the Maitlands' rooms and the renovated portion of the house. Hesitation to face the loss of Adam and Barbara, to pack them away for safe keeping, stalled her from making a move in either direction. For one brief, desperate moment, she wished for that damn voice to tell her what to do. Of course, it didn't say a thing. Voices belonging to twisted imaginations never did when you were actually looking for them to.

She finally turned from the older setting, deciding that she couldn't face the emptiness today. She would put it off…again. Instead, she would work on cleaning the year's worth of dust and grime from the home her parents had remodeled.

With the stereo in the living room cranked to its full potential on a station that played a random mix of anything that would keep her from getting sick, she poured her time into dusting, sweeping, moping and vacuuming, not stopping until each surface, each floor, each cupboard looked as it had when they had first been moved into the house.

By the time she was finished, the sun was sinking into the horizon and her stomach was reminding her that all she'd managed to put in her system the entire day was coffee. She trudged back to the kitchen, her skin feeling decidedly grimy.

While washing the ruminants of hours worth of cleaning from her skin, she tried to decide on who to call for some decent delivery. The usual fast food places came to mind along with the pitiful amount of pizza delivery places. She sneered at each one of them, grabbing a nail brush and scrubbing the dirt out from under her nails. She wasn't in the mood for fast food, or pizza, or Thai food, or Chinese food.

Flipping the tap off, she turned to the table and picked up her cell, using it to do a quick search on anything else available in the area. Sure, there were phone books – but with the house being empty for as long as it had been, she was certain that it was dated and that half of the establishments no longer existed. Within five minutes she had found a Japanese restaurant that had earned several good reviews and had ordered enough sushi for four people.

Order placed, she tossed her phone back onto the table and reached for the pack of discarded cigarettes. She pulled one free, lit it, then grabbed a small ashtray from one of the many junk drawers and wandered the house aimlessly. Inspecting her thorough job – that was her excuse. But her eyes lingered towards ceilings, mirrors and dark corners. They lingered…expecting to see something, anything.

_Lookin' for me?_

She whirled around and in her haste, caught her hip on a high display table. Swearing profusely, she rubbed at the spot, glaring around the room. "No," she lied.

_Right…not buyin' it babes. _

"What are you doing here?"

_What are YOU doing here? The Maitlands'r gone. Dead, dead, deadski._ He taunted her, throwing her careless echo of his words form years ago at her. _So what'r you still hangin' around for?_

"The place needs to be cleaned up if we're ever going to sell it." Another lie. But this one worked. He fell silent and remained that way for the rest of the evening. Through the appearance of the young, slightly afraid looking delivery boy, through her meal, through the clean up after. He was so quiet that she fooled herself into believing that he was gone. Fooled herself into believing that he'd returned to the Afterlife so she could enjoy a soak in the indoor hot tub in peace.

She didn't bother with a bathing suit. What was the point? She was in her own house and supposedly alone. After filling a glass with wine and taking a moment to wonder whether or not she may be a closet alcoholic, she wandered back to the newest addition her father had splurged on before moving out – an extravagant half deck overlooking the town of Winter River. Windows bowed around in a half circle and the middle of that circle was an enormous hot tub that both she and Delia, amazingly enough, had tried to talk her father out of. Now, staring at it and wondering idly why this one room seemed well cared for when the rest of the house had gone to waste, she was glad her father had ignored them. After the week she'd had a good, long soak was just what she needed.

Deciding to leave the lights off, she pulled the cover from the hot tub and was greeted with muted lighting waving below the blue-green surface of water. She tested it, surprised further still to find the water alluringly hot. Surprise never gave away to apprehensive questioning. Setting her glass of wine on the edge, she flicked the switch to start the jets, then pulled her shirt off and tossed it aside. Quick to follow were her jeans and last her bra and underwear. She stepped into the hot tub, the water lapping at her bare skin, then sank down with a blissful sigh until she was seated right in front of a jet. She dropped her head back, closed her eyes. It didn't take long before the tears started.

The week had been wearing on her. Her work was demanding, her clients even more so, her deadlines were too close together and her agent had almost gotten himself a restraining order due to the borderline harassment to meet them. As it were, she was seriously considering getting rid of him all together and hiring a new one. That added to the disturbing dreams and the loss of Adam and Barbara, a quiet house with no distractions….

Lydia allowed herself to, for the first time in years, quietly fall apart.

End A/N: Yes, Lydia feels like she got a good night's rest. She had no idea she outted herself through a dream she couldn't remember. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Hey guys! Yes, I'm back again! I think I'll keep coming back too. I'm kind of liking it here And I'm still finding quite a bit of inspiration which is always a good thing. Thank you all so much for the reviews! Inulover1993…that last one was hilarious. Seriously, the visual that went along with that had me spitting up coffee, I was laughing so hard. So I hope you all continue to enjoy it. Oh, and here's your fair warning. There will be smut. Because…well, I just love smut. So if you don't…I'm warning you in advance so you can back out slowly now before I start writing some very questionable activities ;)

**Disclaimer:** Standard applies – don't own, making no money.

**Chapter Three: Lies**

Selling the house? There was no way in hell Charles Deetz would sell. Beetlejuice didn't know the guy personally but what he did know of him after years of haunting and dropping in on 'Ol Chucky from time to time for a good scare, was one thing – Charles Deetz was a property monger. There was no way he would be giving up a prime piece of real estate in the heart of Connecticut, especially when the house landed on one of the largest lots the small town had to offer. The Deetz house dominated the hillside overlooking Winter River. It was the first thing a person saw when driving in and due to the eccentric additions, it commanded attention. No, Chuck Deetz wouldn't just up and sell this place. So what was she playing at?

Vacating his rooms where he had been idly floating about, riding the euphoric high that came with taunting little Miss Lydia, he made his way back into the world of the living, interested to find out just what she was up to now. Watching her clean all day had been decidedly boring. Though he had to admit he enjoyed the choice of wardrobe that went with it – low rise jeans and a simple black shirt cut so that every time she reached up to dust a high shelf or picture on the wall half of her enticing midriff was revealed. And the way her hair was cut at an angle – longer in the front, shorter in the back, the glossy strands catching the sunlight….

He might have been dead but he was still a man and any man in his right mind would appreciate the sight of a toned stomach, a teasing upward curve of ribs, dark hair hanging in dark eyes, contrasting with smooth porcelain and work-flushed cheeks.

_Alright…tone it the fuck down Beej. You're not some romantic, pathetic sap. _

But…she had a rock solid body he wouldn't mind bending in quite a few different directions. Of course, there was that fact that she'd quite literally screwed him over and as much as he didn't mind thinking of her in all the wrong ways…he would much rather think about screwing her over in much the same manner. 

_Getting a sandworm involved_, he mused as he moved through the quiet house. _Now that would be risky…_

The sound of the jets from the hot tub caught his attention. Caught it and piqued his interest. _Haven't heard that thing runnin' since the last time…_

He shuddered, trying to repress the memory moving in for a late night freak-out session only to have been the one freaking out. Turned out Delia Deetz had a freaky side to her. And even more surprising? Charles Deetz did too. Turned out that freaky side existed in bondage and scalding hot water. Beetlejuice had spent the rest of the evening trying not to be sick. The fact that he was sick, being _who_ he was, said a lot.

"Fuckin' gross," he muttered, moving closer to the source and turning his mind instead to thoughts of tormenting the Lil' Miss. A lot could be done in a hot tub. He could crank up the heat a bit, really put some flush in that pale skin of hers. Or he could fill it with some funky mixture of grave dirt and three week old garbage. That would be a decent start.

Entering the room, he came to a sudden stop. There was a shirt laying on the floor…a shirt that looked entirely far too familiar. Next to that… a pair of jeans. His gaze traveled further as he slowly floated into the dark confines of the room, landing on the deep burgundy bra and matching slip of a thong lying haphazardly beside the hot tub. And then….thoughts of gruesome torment gave way to thoughts of erotic torment as he stared down at a very nude Lydia Deetz. The bubbling water and lights obscured the fine lines but he didn't need them to fully comprehend what he was seeing – long legs, pale, glowing skin, a decent rack that she must have grown over the past few years because he sure as shit didn't remember seeing _those_ the last time she was home.

A sudden image of her squirming and writhing, moaning as she arched over the side of the hot tub in pleasure burned through his mind. He could control the water, carefully tease her into spreading those legs and giving him a better look at what she had to offer. He could get her distracted enough to not notice him manipulating her hand down between those legs. He wouldn't mind watching that mouth work, listening to her beg for more.

She shifted suddenly, sighing and sitting up. Lifting her head, she reached for her glass of wine, took a long drink, then set it aside. She drew a deep breath and he was distracted by the teasing lift of her full breasts for only a moment before her heard the shudder in her released breath. He glanced up and frowned. She was crying. She wasn't…sobbing….or making any noise for that matter. What he'd mistaken for sweat was actually tears – several of them trickling steadily down her rosy cheeks.

Her lids fluttered open and he noticed, with mild surprise, that her eyes were much darker than he'd first thought they were. Her tears made them a rich dark chocolate color. He would kick himself for it later, call himself every goddamned name in the book for being even the slightest bit sentimental…but before he could stop himself…

_What's with the waterworks?_

Lydia only let her head fall back before rolling it back and forth in a show of denial. "Are you here or are you not here?" she muttered.

He grinned. _That is the question…._

Her eyes opened, narrowed, shined with barely concealed hostility. And damned if he wasn't the slightest bit turned on by it.

"What do you want from me?"

_Whatever you wanna offer, Babes._

She snorted softly. "Gross." She slid further into the water. Her fingers toyed with the stem of her wine glass.

_So what gives? _

"Can't a girl just have a bad week?" she muttered, then added quietly, closing her eyes and furrowing her brown, "Week…month…year…whatever."

He tilted his head, scrutinizing her. Well, if she was going to be all morose and self-pitying, it wasn't going to be much fun terrorizing her. Sneering, he pulled his legs up and crossed them, then rested his elbows on them.

_ That bad,_ he asked before he could even stop himself.

What hardly passed for a smile curved her full lips. "I'm sitting here talking to you. That answer your question?"

A confusing mix of contempt and admiration welled up within him. Admiration? What the fuck…for _this? _ This pathetic woman crying because she'd had a hard week! _Sick,_ he muttered, unaware that he'd said it out loud.

"What?" She sat up suddenly, uncaring of her lack of clothing. The fingers that had gently been toying with the wine glass tightened around it and she lifted it to her lips, draining the contents before setting the glass down. "Why are you here?"

_Told ya…collectin' an old debt._

"You honestly expect me to believe that you've been hanging around this empty house for years waiting for me to come back just to make me pay up? Even after what happened the last time you showed up for the same damn thing? I'm not buying it. _Why_ are you here?"

He almost said the truth…that he didn't know why he was there. He had always figured he'd been sent back to this hellhole because of his ties to the Deetz girl and their yet-to-be-completed marriage. Half the vows had been spoken. They'd been one fucking kiss away from sealing the deal and getting him out of the other world for good. Was half a ceremony enough to hold him? Juno had never said. In fact, she'd been about as fucking vague as the bitch could get – giving him no specifics. Hell, she hadn't even looked at him when he'd walked into her office. Just a quick enough glance to recognize the clothing followed by a curt nod and a muttered, "Get out of my office." Then she'd sent him…here. Of all fucking places…here. Back to the damn house where the boring Maitlands provided him _no_ entertainment. Hell, after several years even scaring the shit out of Chuck had gotten old.

"Forget it," Lydia suddenly muttered, pulling him from his thoughts. The sound of splashing water gained his full attention and a lecherous grin pulled at his pale features as he watched her move out of the tub, almost leisurely grabbing a towel and wrapping it around herself.

Fuck…she really did have one hell of a body. His gaze traveled lazily over the long legs, the flared hips, a slender torso, the tattoo…

His eyes flared with barely concealed hostility. A pagan protection symbol…with a black and white striped snake for the circle. That little, meddling, stuck up, emo bitch! Did she honestly think some ink would stop _him? _Beetlejuice? Nothing could fucking stop him and he would show her just how masochistic he could be, make her feel like an idiot for ever believing that a god damn tattoo would _ever_ be able to protect her.

Beetlejuice rubbed his hands together, suddenly overcome with inspiration. Hell, he was going to enjoy this. Probably more than he should have. He was going to drain every bit of fear from her, then take perverse pleasure in seeing just how much of a deviant she was by proving to her and him that part of her, some twisted, dark, deep seeded part…wanted him , then he was going to drag her back into the pit of sheer, desperate horror. In short…he was going to have a damn good time….and she was going to pay.

A quick crack of the knuckles and he started after her.

_Don't do it…_

He stopped, frowning in confusion. What the hell…

_Leave the girl be. At least until you understand…_

Okay, this was messed up. He was the ghost here. And yet…he was hearing voices? That didn't make any sense. He waited for another "warning", distantly registering the sound of Lydia's bedroom door shutting. When none came, he muttered a few hateful choice words under his breath. But he didn't follow Lydia. And that night the house remained quiet.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry this took so long guys! Kind of lost track of what I've been up to. But thanks again to all of you reviewing and following. You're all awesome! And I can't believe I haven't said this yet but HUGE thanks to my beta, Mel for looking over this and helping me along! Love you lady! **

**Disclaimer: Standard applies. You guys know the standard, right? : )**

**Chapter Four: Boo**

_"You know what I'm doin' here."_

_"Do I?" She smiled, keeping her eyes closed, leaving her hands to rest on the pillow above her head. "I'm not sure I do. You should tell me."_

_A touch of damp cold to her neck, the lightest caress of fingernails raking up her side. She shivered. But not in fear…in delight. Where her body was heated, his cold touch cooled. He seemed to know just how to touch her, just where to touch her to drive those sane, rational thoughts from her mind. _

_"I'm here to collect, darlin'" he growled in some exaggerated accent that made her laugh. _

_She opened her eyes, boldly staring death in the face. His dark, hungry eyes met hers and he grinned – a flash of decay that should have disgusted her. Everything about him should have disgusted her. His manners, his lank, dirty hair, his deathly pale skin, his dirty nails, his hygiene…everything should have repulsed her. It never did though. _

It never will. I'm just messed up that way, _she thought as she reached up and framed his face with her hands. "Then collect," she whispered, pulling him down. _

_He made a noise. Whether it was a purr or a growl, she couldn't tell. She didn't care. His lips met hers – cold and dry – and her entire body reacted, arching to his touch, yielding to his demands._

"_Never liked this color. Hating it on you."_

_She looked down, frowning in confusion at the splash of hot pink and black lace barely managing to cover her. It was almost ugly against her pale skin. Pink…why was she in pink?_

"_Easily taken care of…"_

_A simple graze of blood-red tipped nails over the monstrosity and it turned to shimmering pink liquid, sliding away from her with gentle reverence. Her eyelids fluttered shut, hiding her from the look of ravaged hunger. She shuddered with an intoxicating mixture of apprehension and anticipation. It wasn't him she feared. It was never him - even though it should have been. She should have shoved him away, denied him. The only terrifying thing about this scenario though…was how desperately she craved his attention, his affection, his touch. In the simplest terms…how much she craved him. _

"_Lyds…"_

_A faint smirk curled her lips. She kept her eyes closed. "Beej…"_

"_Can't even bring yourself to look at me, huh?"_

_Her eyes flew open, dark and serious. "I'm not afraid to look at you."_

_He gave her a devastating, slow smile that caused something deep within her to shriek with unadulterated insatiability. She let it take control, using her legs to flip him over and move into a position of dominance. She straddled him, feeling the chill of his skin between her thighs and gasping. _

"_Into a little necrophilia, huh babes? Kinky," he muttered with a sadistic twist of his dark lips._

"_Fuck you," she returned, smiling as she ran her hands over his muscular chest. She loved to see what he'd been hiding from her, all the muscles and sinew, the youth suppressed by dust and grime, by poorly fitted clothing and ill-concealed innuendos. _

"_You dig it." He caught one of her hands, brought it to his mouth. His tongue flicked out to taste the tip before his lips and teeth closed around it. _

_Lydia shivered, her eyelids sliding shut as her head dropped back. His hands were at her hips – strong…capable. They tugged her forward slowly until she felt him hard against her aching flesh. She bit her bottom lip, drawing blood and as he pushed into her. He levered up and captured her lips in a hungry kiss, tongue greedily seeking the red staining them. She closed her arms around his shoulders, pressed herself against him, drew him further and further-._

Lydia jerked up in bed, drenched in sweat, her body burning. Gasping for breath, she pressed a hand to her forehead. What the _hell?_

She started to throw aside the comforter stifling her then thought better of it and pulled it tightly around her. That feeling that she wasn't alone was raising the fine hairs along her neck. She could feel eyes on her. Her paranoia started to eat at her, mixing potently with the lingering excitement and sudden chill of fear.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered. She hesitated for only a moment, then tossed the comforter aside, letting irritation seep into her and overpower the turmoil of other, unwanted emotions. There was an annoying monotony in what she was doing – thinking he was there, then doubting her sanity. A stop needed to be put to it. And not a gradual one. The stop would happen now.

Reaching for the nightstand, she jerked open the drawer. It still sat there, collecting dust in the far corner – the skeleton key that opened each door in the house…including the attic. She twisted out of bed and went to her closet, pulling a long, violet satin robe from the hook behind the door. Clutching the key tightly, she slipped the robe over what little she wore, shivering slightly at the feel of cool fabric against her heated skin. Aggravated footsteps carried her from her room and towards the attic. She imagined that if she walked fast enough, if she let her anger over the confusion of being here fuel her enough…she wouldn't have time to rethink what she was doing.

She made it up the first short flight of stairs to the landing midway up the attic without having an anxiety attack. However, when she reached the landing, when her gaze traveled hesitantly to the attic door, panic closed in on her like a vulture swooping down for it's pray. She stood, her numb hand clutching the skeleton key until its worn edges bit into her palm. The walls felt like they were closing in around her. Her breath was erratic, so much so that she doubted whether or not she was actually breathing.

"Don't be stupid, Lydia," she muttered, shaking her head. "Even if he is here…he can't do anything to you sitting in a model." She squared her shoulders and drew in a deep breath. "Can't do anything," she repeated softly, then forced herself to move up the next flight of stairs.

The key fit into the lock with nothing more than a hissing scrape of metal on metal. She unlocked it, then gripped the doorknob. The door silently swung inward with nothing more than a tiny shove. Letting the last of her anxieties fade into the deep recess of her mind, she moved into the attic - the place they had first met – her searching for the Maitlands, him enjoying some downtimes at that _joke_ of a brothel. Each memory paraded its way over her subconscious as she passed over the threshold.

The original model had been left abandoned on sawhorses, the wood holding it bowing slightly towards the floor. A thick layer of dust shrouded the miniature town. It covered every inch of the attic but her gaze was fixed on the model. It looked…desolate. Had the situation been different, had the memories from so long ago not haunted her mind, taking up far too much space…she may have felt sadness for such art gone to waste.

With a near absentmindedness, Lydia placed a fingertip on one of the many wooden beams supporting the unfinished basement. She dragged her finger gently over the surface. Even parallel positioning couldn't mask the proof of how long this room had stood empty.

Her eyes traveled the expanse of the room, looking in corners, at cloth covered furniture. She was avoiding direct contact with the model…which was…again, "Ridiculous. Jeez, just look already, Lyds."

Pivoting slowly on one foot and vaguely thinking of just how filthy her socks were going to be once she left the room, she glared down at Adam's creation. "Alright…where are you?"

She scanned the sagging plywood, the small replicas of a town that had surpassed the simple spread before her years ago, the cryptic graveyard. Her eyes lingered here, narrowing slightly. "Come out, you piece of shit poltergeist."

Silence. Nothing more than the faint howl of winter wind slipping through the window. Lydia wrapped her arms around herself. She waited, muscles tense, for a sign of anything. I breath, a creek, a familiar and maniacal cackle. And still…nothing. Her mind started arguing with itself again. It was becoming a very tiring game. She hunched her shoulders, shivering slightly as the arctic breeze sneaking through the thin windows nipped at her.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the window pane. It forced the attic door to swing back and a loud _bang _shattered the silence. With a startled gasp, Lydia spun, digging her nails into her arms. Wide eyes stared at the door and again, a numbing cold swept over her. The walls started pressing in on her again. When she started to breathe again, her breaths were short and tight, forced past the lump of dread firmly lodged in her esophagus.

"Damn it," she muttered with a firm shake of her head. Cursing herself for being such a fool, she strode quickly to the door, jerked it open with nearly enough force to rip it from its hinges, then stormed out, slamming the door loudly behind her.

* * *

A sick grin twisted Beetlejuice's mouth as he watched Lydia storm out of the attic. He'd been taking quite a bit of pleasure in driving the young woman to the brink of insanity. He could see her struggling with herself – wondering if he was there, wondering if she was losing it. Yesterday it had been a riot. Today…it was already starting to get old. She was only getting mad and he was only growing more frustrated by the second with how intriguing he was finding this older, more mature and filled out Lydia to be. He weighed the thought of tormenting her further against the thought of actually letting her know he was there. Tricky, tricky….which was the lesser of two evils?

But she looked so damn good when she was irritated, when those dark eyes were all narrow and pissed off. Seeing her annoyed was enough of a rush to make him wonder…how gorgeous she would look when good and furious.

"Only one way to find out," he muttered to himself, rubbing his hands together. "It's show time."

In a matter of seconds he was standing in the mirror, making himself comfortable against the edge as Lydia came strutting in. She made for the connecting bathroom and he gave up the pretense of not being there. As she passed the mirror her eyes darted over it and he grinned, lifting a hand in greeting. "Hey, Babes."

The reaction was immediate and mostly due to shock, he was sure. He'd caught her off guard. But Lydia Deetz had never, much to his irritation and regret, been afraid of him. She whipped around at the sound of his voice, a startled scream escaping her. In her haste she'd tripped over her own feet and landed quite ungraciously on her ass, legs slightly akimbo. "Nothin' sexier than an uncoordinated woman," he drawled, eyeing her position appreciatively.

"God _damn it!"_ she yelled, awkwardly shoving herself back up. He didn't notice the clumsy way she moved though. All he could see was the hostility blazing in her eyes, the teeth bared, the tension in every muscle of her body. She was a knock out to begin with, but man…when she got good and furious, she was the hottest thing, living or dead, that he'd ever seen.

"Pretty sure the big guy's already damned me. Few times, probably." He leaned more fully against the frame, his gaze riveted on what he deemed one of Lydia's finer aspects. "Damn babes, anyone ever told ya how much of a turn on you are when you're pissed?"

"You're actually here," she deadpanned.

"Thought you knew that."

"No. I didn't think-." Her glare became, if possible, even more fierce. "You've been…toying with me. You fucking shit!" She whirled and went for her nightstand, grabbing the hairbrush resting beside her alarm clock and lifting it above her head as she turned once again to face him.

Beetlejuice chuckled. "Yeah, Babes…do that. Break the mirror. It ain't gonna stop me. Besides, you really wanna spend the rest of the day pickin' glass out of the carpet?" Her hand fell to her side. "That's what I thought."

"I told you before…I'm not going to marry you. So why…_why_…are you still here?"

"Because," he snarled, bracing his hands on his desk and leaning forward, "I'm fucking stuck here. Purgatory for screwin' with those stick-in-the-mud shitheads Barb and Adam and trying to get married to your sorry ass."

"Watch it," Lydia warned in a low voice.

"Or what?" His lips curled in a sneer. "The only thing _you_ can do, Lyds…is ignore me. And you've already failed at that."

"It'd be a lot easier if you'd stop being so fucking annoying." She went back to the nightstand, tossing down the hairbrush and trading it for a pack of cigarettes. She pulled one from the pack, lit it, then went back to the foot of the bed, leaning against one of the four posts jutting up toward the ceiling.

They stared at each other in mutinous silence, neither willing to take the first step towards what might be considered semi-friendly conversation.

"When the fuck did you start smoking," Beetlejuice finally grumbled.

"Why?" She took a long drag, blew it out and smiled evilly. "You want one?"

"Piss off."

She chuckled softly, the melodic sound taking him entirely off guard. In the length of time he'd known Lydia Deetz, he'd never…_never…_heard her actually laugh. And if he was going to be honest with himself…he _hated _being honest with himself…but the sound was…

_Fuck me,_ he thought, schooling his features into a hardened glare. The damn sound was as beautiful as she was. He dug his nails into the hardened surface of the desk, taking only a mild amount of satisfaction when the wood gave and cracked in protest.

The smile suddenly faded, replaced by a searching look that got under her skin. She looked interested. Not angry, not scared...but interested. She levered herself away from the post and slowly started toward him. "Why did you end up stuck here?"

"Damned if I know," he muttered with a careless shrug. He pried his nails from the grooves they'd formed with a tiny grunt, then levitated into the air, crossing his legs and settling his elbows on them. "Probably because I can't do a damn thing around here. The Maitlands are…_were_," he corrected, "a buncha stiffs. And you're parents…oblivious as fuck. Can't get a decent scare outta anyone here. It's boring."

"Hm, poor you," Lydia murmured dryly. But she moved closer. Sinking down into the small backless chair in front of the vanity, she pulled an ashtray from the drawer and set it down.

He tilted his head slightly to the side, watching her. The image of her twisting in bed and saying his name was still fresh in his mind. He almost wanted to ask her about it. Almost. He didn't need to sound like some pathetic, desperate, hormonal teen seeking out a woman's affections. _Hell_ no.

"What are you doin' here anyway, Babes?"

"I told you. We're selling-."

"Yeah…I'm havin' a hard time believing you. Your dad wouldn't give up a place like this. 'Specially after all the work Delia forced him to put into it. Try again."

Irritation briefly crossed over her face, like a cloud over the sun on a blustery day - there and gone in under a second. She sighed and dropped her elbow to the vanity. The silence stretched as she took a long drag of her cigarette, combed her hair out of her eyes, made him impossibly uncomfortable watching every action.

"I feel like…like I owe it to Barb and Adam to make sure their things don't get buried here or sent off to goodwill. They were like family to me." She looked down at her hands and added in a cynical murmur, "More than my own dad and step-mom ever were."

Beetlejuice wasn't comfortable with human displays of emotion. Not in the slightest. Emotion equaled weakness as far as he was concerned and weakness was about as disgusting as being clean. "Forgot you people did stuff like that."

"Stuff like what?" She looked up, her dark eyes wary. Wary…and _damn it_…captivating.

"Care." He spat the word out and curled his lip at the very feel of it tripping off his tongue. Caring…gross. "They're gone. Not like they're ever gonna notice you pickin' up after them and stashin' their stuff away."

"I know that," she snapped. She closed her eyes, pursing her lips slightly, then let out a slow breath and opened them again. "But it matters to me."

He shrugged. He could care less what sentimental attachment had brought her back. "How long ya stickin' around for?"

"Not as long as you," she muttered smartly, her lips tightening as she tried to fight back a grin.

He almost laughed…almost. "Funny, babes. Real fuckin' funny. Make fun of a guy stuck in this shithole."

With a roll of her eyes she took another drag, then purposely blew it towards the mirror. The smoke furled lazily up the glass. His overactive hormones briefly pictured that the smoke was her fingers, reaching for him, lacquered nails tugging playfully at the buttons on his jacket…his shirt…his pants.

Gritting his teeth, he silently commanded his libido to shut the hell up. "Where'd you find a sense of humor?"

She shrugged, then finally relented a smile that softened her considerably. "Somewhere along the lines."

He snorted, not trusting himself to say one word. If he did, he knew he'd mutter some disgusting crap about how nice it was to see her smile. He'd utter some half-truth that would make him look like a total sap and Beetlejuice was _not_ some sap! Even if those damn legs were a lot longer than he ever remembered them being and the robe she was wearing had fallen open and given him the most mouth-watering view he'd seen in a long, _long_ time. He didn't count Delia Deetz as a mouth watering view. He counted her as a shrill, lypo-ed up bitch in heat. Lydia though….damn she was class all over.

"You're being conversational."

Beetlejuice started, unaware that he'd been appreciating the view a little too obviously. "Huh?"

"You…you're actually talking to me. And not about a damn deal or any of that crap that happened years ago." She tilted her head to the side, regarding him with that same, endearing interest she'd approached him with. "You up to something?"

"No." _Fuck…always say yes!_

"Really?" Her smile widened. "I find that hard to believe. You…Mr. Ghost With the Most…up to nothing?"

_Spiteful little bitch. Time to test her…see just what's goin' on in that twisted mind of hers. _"Let me out and I'll be up to a whole lot of bad things." He uncrossed his legs, lowered himself to the floor, then braced his hands on the table, leaning forward. "Most of them involving everything you're hiding under that robe."

She went still, her eyes widening. And he saw it. It was only a second before it was gone and she was back to looking like that pissed off temptress. But in that second he'd seen exactly what he wanted to see – excitement.

_Got ya, Babes. _

"You're such a pig," she hissed, grinding out her cigarette before pulling her robe tight around her and standing.

"Lean forward like that again," he leered, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"There is no way in hell I would ever give you the pleasure of seeing-." The doorbell cut her off and she frowned, whirling toward the sound as if she almost expected whoever was there to be standing at her bedroom door. "Who even knows I'm here? You," she turned to point a non-threatening finger at him, "stay here."

"Yeah, because I really have a choice in the matter," he muttered.

"You know what I mean." Cinching the belt of her robe, she swept out of the room.

Beetlejuice pushed himself away from the mirror, half annoyed with her demands, half annoyed by the simple fact that he didn't mind watching her walk away in the slightest. Well, he did mind…but the view was really-.

"Damn it!" His head quickly and brutally landed where his hands had been, thwacking solidly against the surface of the desk. Damn the little brat for getting to him like this! This wasn't how it was supposed to be! Anything related to Lydia Deetz was supposed to involve vengeance and brutality…not-, "Whatever the hell this is."

Sluggishly pulling himself up, he sighed. He could hear Lydia's light footsteps descending the stairs. She had told him to stay where he was. When did he ever listen? Especially to her?

With a grin, he ghosted his way down to the main floor, intent on correcting her little assumption that she could control him.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Hey guys! Sorry this took so long but hopefully it was worth the wait. The end really kind of jerked me in a few different directions until I finally just gave into one and went with it. Hope you enjoy! And thanks again for all the great feedback and reviews everyone!

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

**Chapter Five: Mistake **

If there was one thing Lydia Deetz was not able to stand, it was company before she'd had a chance to shower. Or even get cup of coffee for that matter. Most of her acquaintances knew it was a smart idea to stay out of her way until well after 11 a.m. She wasn't a morning person and whoever was on the other side of that door was about to find that out the hard way.

Before she reached for the doorknob however, she spun on her heel and with a devious little grin said, "If you didn't listen and you came down here anyway…be a doll and make me some coffee….again."

_Screw you, Deetz._

She laughed and went back to the door, pulling it open. A woman stood on the other side – tense, straight-faced and dressed like she was from the 1950's. Her long hair was pulled away and teased into a slight poof over the crown of her head. The look did nothing for her face. But then again, neither did her choice of clothing. A long winter coat, circa-1950's (and a very unimpressive 1950's) hung open over a beige skirt-suit that washed every bit of color out of her face. And, Lydia turned her head slightly to the side, her brows drawing down, could the collar of that blouse possible _be_ any higher? She couldn't imagine how that the full ensemble offered any comfort. "Can I…help you?"

Blatant disapproval flashed in the woman's eyes before she further straightened her shoulders and fixed a look of mild disinterest on her face. "Hello, is your mother home?"

Lydia leaned against the door frame. If the woman wanted to play all high and mighty, Lydia wouldn't give her the satisfaction of thinking for one second that she was intimidating her. "No. My _step_-mother and father moved to New Orleans two years ago."

"Oh."

Did her nose actually…go higher?

"Are you currently living here then?"

Lydia shrugged. "For the most part."

Her hand shot forward. Lydia studied it for a moment before hesitantly grasping it. "I'm Jane Butterfield-."

"Oh, right. I remember you. Family of Barbara and Adam, right? How were you related to them again?"

Jane waved her off, her carefully frozen façade vanishing momentarily. "Distant cousins." She dug in the large tote hanging at her side and pulled free a card. "I wanted to stop by and offer my services as a realtor. Seeing as how this house had stood empty for so long and the market is turning again, it would be a perfect time to sell. There are several people interested, several wealthy people who would pay over what the home may be valued at. If you have a-."

Lydia held up her hand to stop the woman. She was going to kick herself for this. Truthfully, she already was. She knew _he _was listening and yes, he'd said he didn't believe her. But she hated the fact that she was actually going to spit the truth out and be caught in her own lie. "My father isn't looking to sell, Mrs. Butterfield."

Undeterred, she continued. "Be that as it may, with the offers coming in I couldn't possibly ignore them. I'm sure your father would at least be interested-."

"They only thing my father is interested in right now is securing property in Audubon Place. If you don't mind…it's early and I haven't had any coffee." Lydia started handing the card back. She wanted nothing more than to get this woman off of her front porch.

"Keep the card, dear. I'll come back some other time. I'll bring some paperwork with and a few quotes so that you have a full understanding of the amounts being discussed." With a smart turn on her heel, Jane Butterfield left Lydia standing on the threshold, her jaw slightly agape.

Paperwork? Amounts being…_discussed_? If she didn't know any better, Lydia would say that Mrs. Butterfield had already made it sound as if her parent's home - _her home_ - was for sale. She gritted her teeth, took a step back and slammed the door. If Mrs. Nosey decided to come back, there was no way in hell Lydia would be talking to her.

_Busted, Babes. _

Lydia gritted her teeth, further annoyed that her suspicions on Beetlejuice being within hearing distance had been correct. "Did you make coffee, or not?"

He was silent, of course. Rolling her eyes, Lydia headed for the kitchen to make it herself, tearing up Jane Butterfields card as she went. She paused in the process of tossing it in the garbage can around the corner and a rueful smile found its way across her face. A full pot of coffee sat waiting. "Hm…thanks."

_Repay me by lettin' me outta here._

"And no thanks."

She laughed at the string of curses that followed her to the cupboard where she pulled down a tall mug and filled it with steaming brew. A few minutes later and she was seated at the kitchen table, enjoying her coffee and a bagel slathered in cream cheese. She leafed through a trendy photography magazine, taking mild interest in what the pages had to offer. Of course, she'd seen them already. It was just something to do – something that didn't involve agonizing over what unwelcome antics Jane Butterfield was up to.

_Sooo, ya gonna say anything about that?_

"Talking to just a voice is almost as annoying as having to talk to that woman," she muttered, swirling what was left of her coffee absentmindedly.

_You know how to take care of that._

"Yes, I do. And no, I won't."

_Then sit there and fuckin' worry about it. See if I care. _

There was a faint sound of wind rushing from the room and she knew she was alone. A sad smile tilted the corners of her lips. "So much for being conversational," she murmured.

She suddenly wanted out of the house, away from the memories…away from him. Pushing herself from the table, Lydia stood and tossed what was left of her cold coffee in the sink. She was going to get ready, she was going to get in her car, and she was going to get the hell out of this house, out of this _town_ where he couldn't get to her. She was going to clear her head and come back for round…

"Whatever the hell we're on," she muttered, heading upstairs and praying feverishly that he'd leave her alone while she got dressed.

* * *

Beetlejucie was annoyed. Seriously…annoyed. And he did _not_ enjoy being seriously annoyed. Especially when the cause of that annoyance was Little Lying Lydia Deetz. Selling the house…whatever. That Butterfield woman had pretty much destroyed even the slightest pretense of that with her sudden appearance. A sudden appearance that had resulted in Lydia being gone for the rest of the day.

Hanging upside-down, his feet inches away from the ceiling, Beetljuice released a dramatic sigh and crossed his arms over his chest. Without Lyds around…he was bored. No one to haunt, no one to talk to…just him and his damn confusing thoughts about the breather he was shacked up with.

_Lydia…_

She irritated the shit out of him. That irritation was shifting though – shifting to begrudging admiration and curiosity. She wasn't the girl he remembered. Not even close. Sure, there were still traces of the old Lydia lingering about…but this new Lydia – she was something else entirely. She was clever, feisty…hauntingly beautiful-.

"She's a fuckin' handful is what she is," he muttered, slowly turning himself over.

And the fact that she'd been upset by the appearance of uptight Jane…that didn't sit well with him. He didn't know why…but for some reason, like everything else about Lydia…it sat under his skin and made it crawl uncomfortably.

"Shit, any more of this sentimental crap and I'm gonna end up begging Juno to relocate me."

The doorknob in Lydia's room rattled and Beetlejuice dropped to his feet, going to the mirror.

"And enter the bane of my existence. Well…non-existence," he quipped dryly as Lydia pushed her way into the room, a large equipment case slung over her shoulder and several shopping bags dangling from one hand. She dropped them unceremoniously beside the bed, then placed the equipment bag reverently on top of the chest at the foot of the bed. The coat she wore was shrugged off and thrown carelessly over it.

He quickly drew back as much of his power as he could, not wanting her to feel any lingering trace of him in the room. He told himself it was because he was bored, because he wanted to toy with her some more. That whole making her think she had lost her mind thing had been a good time.

The truth though….the thing he wouldn't admit to himself…was that he wanted to watch her, to study her…to know her.

Lydia pulled a cigarette free from the pack in her coat pocket. He noted with mild interest that she wasn't a hardcore smoker, but she sure did it a lot more than she probably should have. Slow, confident strides brought her to the French doors that lead to the balcony. His watched the way her hips moved, hypnotized by the way they swayed, running his tongue over his bottom lip.

She pulled both doors open, letting in the biting winter air, then leaned against the doorjamb, lighting her cigarette. She tossed the lighter carelessly behind her once finished with it. It landed on the bed and bounced off, clattering softly to the floor. Her attention wasn't on the lighter, however. Her eyes roamed the confines of her room, lingering on the mirror. He knew she couldn't see him, but it didn't stop him from tensing slightly under her speculative gaze.

Sadness flickered in her eyes and she sighed. Clenching her cigarette loosely in her lips, she started to unbutton the deep violet blouse she'd worn out. One button at a time…further and further down. His eyes feasted on every movement.

She pealed the fabric away and let it slip down her arms, falling to her feet, then moved to her jeans, unbuttoning them and sliding them over her shapely hips. Down with the shirt they went until she stood in nothing but dark violet lace. She took her cigarette between the fingers of one hand and pulled it away from her lips, exhaling. The other hand moved to the clasp of her bra. One dainty flick of her fingers and it was undone. There was no shame, no hesitation as rolled her shoulders to free the straps and flung the garment aside. When the cold air brushed her skin, her nipples hardened. And Beetlejuice's mouth went impossibly dry. Who _was_ this woman? Who was this temptress brazenly standing half naked in an open doorway, inviting in the cold.

"Lyds," he groaned, leaning forward and resting his forehead against the mirror.

In turn, she leaned hers against the frame of the open doorway. One arm snaked its way around her stomach. He wanted it to be his. He wanted to feel just how soft that pale skin was. What the _hell_ was wrong with him?

With a soft hum, Lydia flicked her cigarette over the ledge of the balcony, then pulled both doors shut and locked them before moving to her bed. She flipped the covers back, then slid between them. A pang of disappointment stabbed through him as he watched her pull the blankets up and over herself, effectively hiding the tempting display he was really starting to enjoy. A sigh…the tiniest thread of feminine sounds…and she was gone. And he…was bored…again. Bored and incredibly uncomfortable. He pushed away from the mirror with an inarticulate growl. Damn her anyway. What was she thinking, that he wasn't there? She had to know on some level that he was. And if she did…then why the hell would so just…flaunt herself like that.

"Because she likes to fuck with me," he answered his own question, reaching down and attempting to tug his pants into a more comfortable position. There wasn't one though. Not until he could calm down. Which…from the feel of it…was going to take a while. He groaned and banged his head against the wall. Any more of this and he'd be climbing the damn thing instead of abusing it with his skull.

Any more of this and Juno was going to get a call a lot sooner than either of them expected. Even if it was pointless, there was no way he was going to sit here and suffer through-.

"Beetlejuice…"

His head snapped up. He slowly leaned over, peering through the window from his world into Lydia's. If she was still up and wanted to talk, he'd be damned if it didn't go his way this time. He was tired of her controlling the conversations.

But it was apparent, after several minutes of watching an unmoving heap of blankets, that Lydia was asleep. She moaned softly, rolling onto her back. One shift of her legs and the blanket slid low, clinging to the swell of her rapidly lifting and falling breasts. Her brow furrowed and she twisted her head to the side, muttering something far too quiet for him to hear.

"Move those legs again," he commanded in a low, teasing voice, leaning over the desk.

She followed his simple command, not only treating him to a fabulous view again but proving to him just how far gone she was to her slumber. _Humans…so easy to control when they're knocked out. _

Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, she threw the blankets aside. Her hand swept the length of her body and Beetlejuice swallowed hard, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. "Yes…" she whispered, her back arching slightly. "Right there…please. Beetlejuice…"

Excitement pumped through him like a stimulant. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Lydia Deetz…the girl who'd been so repulsed at the idea of marrying him…was having some very, _very_ interesting dreams about _him_? Interesting dreams that he wanted in on.

"Say it again, Babes. Third time's a charm. Third time and I can show you just what I've got…"

Her legs pressed together and she shuddered, making a mewling noise that burned through him.

"Come on, Lyds…say it," he hissed.

She twisted, her back pulling away from the bed again. A gasp tore from her throat. "Beetlejuice!"

He vanished in a cloud of dark smoke and a menacing cackle. The smoke rolled from the mirror, pouring over Lydia's vanity and onto the floor. It slid over the worn area rug covering most of the hardwood floor, gaining speed as it approached the bed and inched up over the side.

"Oooh, Lydia Deetz," the smoke crooned, "I'm about to put that dream of yours to shame."

The smoke furled around her ankle, slithered up one bare leg, then slowly started materializing as a hand, bright red nails gently pressing into the fair skin of Lydia's thigh…wanting to draw blood…but resisting. An arm followed, shoulders, a torso…until Beetlejuice leaned over the fitfully sleeping woman. He braced one hand beside her, his grin lecherous as the hand on her leg rode higher. Lydia's lips parted, a soft sigh escaping them. She parted her legs. She was begging him, her hips arching slightly, to touch her, to feel her.

"Gladly," he growled.

Without so much as a hint of hesitation, without preemptive teasing, he slid one finger roughly into her welcome heat, biting back a groan as he watched her back arch high off the bed, watched those perfect white teeth take in her bottom lip. He tormented her, taking a great deal of pleasure in how she responded to him, how her hand reached for his, grasped his wrist, how her hips moved to set a pace far more feverish than he thought it would be.

"Beetleju-."

He quickly covered her mouth with his free hand, shaking his head. "Uh-uh, babes. You're not gettin' rid of me that easily. Not until I've left an impression."

Her lips moved against his cold palm and he stilled. He could feel their fullness, the heat of her breath against his cold skin. His hand slipped away from her mouth, away from those lips pursed in a moue of sexual frustration. And he was…fascinated. He'd never noticed how full they were…how the bottom lip was only slightly darker than the top. Her tongue darted out and lust clawed at his insides as he watched it leave a trail of wetness over her lips, causing them to glisten in the moonlight.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd kissed a woman…really kissed a woman. Barbara didn't count. She'd been so damn uptight that those lips hadn't moved from their thin purse enough for him to actually enjoy any form of contact with her. Whores didn't kiss. Even in the afterlife, they had their rules.

He inched forward, drawn by those whispery, feminine noises slipping from her, by the feel of her warm, welcome breath on his face. And then her eyes opened.

Bettlejuice went still. With a soft hum, she lifted a hand. He jerked when it pressed against his cheek.

"What is it about you?" she whispered.

He grasped for a response, for something worthwhile to say back. All he came up with was a pitiful, "Beats me, babe."

She remained silent for a moment, her fingers playing over his skin. Then they swept back through his hair and around his neck. "Whatever it is," she nearly purred, "I like it."

The twitch of her fingertips against the back of his neck was an unspoken invitation. Or maybe it wasn't. At that point, he didn't really care. Her tongue was teasing him, trailing over those full lips again…and he just wanted one simple taste. He suddenly wanted to feel them on his, to know what it was like again to kiss a woman who would kiss him back. The human emotion was so strong and unexpected, it took him off guard. His walls were down, leaving him a victim to a disgustingly weak sentiment. He couldn't find it in him to care.

With a growled slur, he leaned down. He wanted to slam his mouth down on hers, to draw blood, to punish her in some way for making him feel like this. Instead, he caught her lips as they parted and melted into her. She was so willing, so god damn willing, lying under him all soft and…

He groaned when her tongue boldly brushed his. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt heat. It licked at his skin, at his insides, crept over him. One of Lydia's long legs inched up, her foot tickling his calf, then the opposite thigh. She wrapped it around his waist, pulling him further into her. Her hips pressed impatiently against his hand, a hand he'd forgotten about entirely the moment her lips had become the center of his universe – a universe that was tilting crazily. He'd made a mistake. A huge mistake.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he buried his face against the curve of her neck. He forced himself to ignore the intoxicating scent there while scrapping up what was left of his masculinity and forcing back the emotional sack of crap that had taken over. He could give a shit less about sentimentality…or at least he had to remind himself that he could give a shit less.

With more roughness than necessary, he slid another finger into her scalding heat. He was rewarded with a strangled cry, one that tapered away into a low gasp when he withdrew and drove his fingers in again, harsher this time, further. He set a near-frenzied pace and when she was close, when those cries turned to desperate pleas, he carelessly bit the soft lobe of her ear and growled, "Say my name, Lydia."

She shook her head back and forth on the pillow, panting. Words tripped wildly from her tongue, none of them one's he actually wanted to hear.

"Say my name," he demanded harshly, rubbing his thumb viciously against her. He was out to punish…though he wasn't sure who exactly was suffering from said retribution.

"Beetlejuice," came her sweet, strained reply.

"Again Lydia."

"Beetlejuice!"

Her inner muscles clenched around his fingers…and he knew the pain of regret as he pressed his lips to her neck, savored her sweet taste, her climax, his name once more leaving her on a breathless prayer of release.

And then he was watching her from a distance, from behind a plate of glass – watching as her breasts rose and fell quickly with each shuddering breath she drew in. He rested his forehead against the cold surface, closed his eyes.

"Fucking stupid, Juice," he muttered. "Beyond stupid."

Again he told himself that he'd made a mistake…the worst mistake he could have possibly made. He stopped hating Lydia, stopped wanting revenge. Now…he just wanted her. And that…was a huge problem.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Hey guys! I'm sorry this took so long. Real life drama and a sudden, unexpected loss in the family kind of put it on the back burner for a bit. But I'm back! And as much as I'd love to say that I know where this is going…Lydia and Beetlejuice are kind of running the show. I know the basic conflict but if anyone has anything they'd like to see along the way, any funny or tension filled ideas you would love to read, feel free to make a suggestion or two! And thank you all for your patience! Hope it was worth the wait! Oh…and when you get to the end…please don't hurt me…. ;)

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

Acknowledgements: Thank you to Melody Winters for being such a fantastic beta! And thank you to all you wonderful reviewers! You guys all rock hardcore!

**Contract**

There was nothing like waking up after a night of fun, sexual antics. The sated afterglow, the lingering ache of muscles that were not often worked. Well, not often worked in Lydia's case. She couldn't remember the last time there had been a second party in her late night escapades. Not many men took an interest in someone who yelled "cold and unapproachable" without saying a word.

And not many people had just knowingly provoked a poltergeist into said sexual antics.

She rolled over, groggy and slightly disorientated, warring with feelings of sickness and euphoria. What had she been _thinking?_ Why…_why_ had she thought it would be an oh-so-wonderful idea to provoke someone like Beetlejuice? She hadn't wanted to. Hell, it hadn't even been on her mind when she'd walked into her room. But she could almost feel the tension in the air, feel his resistance to show himself, and a very large part of her had wanted to push the boundaries and goad him into doing…_something. _It had started with something as simple as wanting him to show himself because…

_Because you're tired of feeling alone and as much as you hate it…he fascinates you. _

She sighed, turning on her side and opening her eyes to regard the sunlight creeping over her floor. She couldn't help but remember the way Bettlejuice's hands had crept up her legs, between them…

With a groan she flipped onto her back and shook her head. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," she muttered. She honestly hadn't expected him to come after her, to take what he had no idea she was willingly offering. She'd expected him to sit there and sweat it out. She should have known better. Beetlejuice had never been predictable. She was a fool to think that he was, even for a second.

Almost against her will, she sat up, half terrified that he would be sitting there, watching her with that leering grin…or worse - unadulterated fury. Come to think of it…she wasn't entirely certain which was worse. And one glance proved that she wouldn't find out. He wasn't there. The mirror sat empty, reflecting only her disheveled image. She made a face at it and, shrugging off the sudden and unexpected pang of disappointment, left her room with two goals – a shower…and coffee.

Nearly an hour later she stood at the kitchen counter, her wet hair combed haphazardly away from her face by a few finger strokes. Those fingers were now curled around a mug of hot coffee that had been liberally sweetened with caramel macchiato creamer which…quite oddly, reminded her of the taste of Beetlejuice.

_Beetlejuice…._

Her eyes narrowed as she contemplated the ghoul. He was so crude – a lecherous serpent with every kind of bad intention imaginable. And yet…when he'd touched her there was a softness in the fingers that slid reverently over her flesh. Even when he'd been so deliciously rough with her, there had been hesitation. When he'd spoke, his demands were laced with something that made her feel as if he were begging her to say his name.

And when he'd kissed her….

She gripped the counter, her legs threatening to give out from under her. Closing her eyes opened her to the onslaught of the intricate emotions that had ripped through her the previous evening. She could remember the feel of his dry lips on hers, the way her entire body, every fiber of her being had reacted to the contact. He'd tasted like earth and caramel. And not the sickly sweet caramel…just a hint that…again, reminded her of the creamer she'd opted for. Caramel, of all things! How was that even possible? He was dead. He should have tasted like decay, like evil, like every foul, rotting thing one could imagine. But he'd tasted….sweet…and addictive.

Lydia opened her eyes with a sigh. She suddenly knew what was going to happen. It had to. It was inevitable. The constant badgering, the teasing, the threats…they would all stop. With one simple thing. One simple thing she was far too insane to stop.

To stop it…maybe. To control it?

Moving quickly, Lydia set her coffee on the kitchen table, then went for the drawer beside the sink, pulling free a half used and slightly age-colored notebook. A pen lay on the counter. She took both to the kitchen table, sat down and leafed through the notebook until she found a blank page. Then, she started to write.

It took an hour and two more cups of coffee, but by the time she was finished with her "project" and had scanned it over carefully, she was relatively pleased with the outcome and only slightly apprehensive about presenting it to Beetlejuice. But he wanted out…and she knew he was going to get his way eventually. Whether it would be on her terms or his was the gray area and she was determined that it would be on hers.

Leaving her now empty mug on the kitchen table, she folded the paper neatly down the center, made her way purposefully upstairs and back into her room. She could feel him there, lingering in the corners like the persistent scent of sulfur after blowing out a match. She crossed to the mirror and rapped the glass sharply, barely managing to keep herself from wincing at how "angry school teacher" the knock sounded.

"Beej, get up. I know you're there."

"Oh, so we're dropping the formalities and sticking to nicknames now, huh?"

Smoke fogged the glass – opaque tendrils furling over the surface and billowing into thick, angry clouds. They stilled for a moment, then slid quickly away and there he stood, leaning against the mirror and giving her a disinterested look. "To what do I owe the pleasure, babes?"

"I," she started, holding up the piece of paper, "have a deal for you."

His interest was clearly piqued by the sudden spark in his feral eyes, though his outward appearance remained much the same – impartial, aloof. He wasn't fooling her any. "We made a deal once," he mused, his voice lacking the usual malice it held whenever he spoke of the last time they'd played a dangerous game of living versus the dead. "Remember how that turned out?"

Shrugging, she started to turn away. "Well, if you're not interested."

"I didn't say I wasn't interested. Whacha got, babes?"

She stared at him for a moment, fighting with indecision, calling herself insane…again. This entire situation was insane though so for her to play the part only meant she was adhering to the rules of said situation. Unfolding the paper, she pressed it to the glass. "A contract."

"Contract," Beetlejuice muttered absently, his eyes already scanning the curling letters scrawled carefully across the page. She remained silent as he read, reminding herself not to fidget or give any sign what-so-ever that she was even the slightest bit nervous.

"No haunting? Lyds…I'm a ghost. Haunting's kinda my thing."

She hummed softly, watching him through her lashes as her lips curled in a wry grin. "Yes…I'm sure the past few years have just been full of prime haunting opportunities."

"Touché."

He continued on, muttering and emitting the occasional long, suffering sigh. When he reached the final stipulation, a brow winged up as his lips pulled down in an unattractive frown. For a minute, she honestly thought he would start pouting.

"You're kidding…right?"

"You want out?" She set the contract down and crossed her arms over her chest. "If you want it that badly, you'll get it. But you'll have to agree to my terms first."

His eyes glinted dangerously, glowing with an unrestrained rage that made the warm rays of sun coasting over her skin suddenly seem irrelevant. She may as well have been standing in the shadows of some nightmare, the yellow light from his eyes was that intense.

He leaned forward, lips curled in a disdainful sneer. "What makes you think that once I'm out I'm going to follow any of this bullshit?"

She was a step ahead of him. She'd done her research. She knew the Afterlife well – probably more than any human had the right to know. But she had been fascinated by the world the Maitland's had lived in, the world _he_ lived in…it had seemed almost natural to fuel that obsession with facts. At the time she hadn't thought it would benefit her much. Now, she thought much differently.

She pulled the side drawer of the vanity open and reached inside, her hand curling around cool steel. She pulled free the ornate dagger she'd collected long ago when she had an interest in such things. It had been among the several items left behind because her curiosity had waned. As with her research into the world of the dead, keeping this item suddenly benefited her. It was almost as if she had been unconsciously preparing for something like this.

With her eyes on him, she pressed the tip of the dagger to her opposing finger, gritting her teeth when pain shot up her arm. It didn't take much to open the flesh so that there would be a steady enough flow, didn't take much to let the dagger fall to the floor, to pick up the contract with the uninjured hand. It took even less to press her open wound to the paper and smear her blood under the word "signature." The red stained the paper in a thick line

Eyes still fixed on his, she laid the contract back down on the vanity. Next, she reached into the drawer for a pen and signed her own name across the smudge. With her part done, she straightened and pushed her shoulders back defiantly. "How bad do you want it?"

She had to repress the need to shudder as the hostility in his eyes deepened. She was crazy to think he would agree to any of it. She was crazy to stay there and allow him to provoke her, allow him to taunt her, allow him to seep into her mind until all she could think about was him and the feelings he could make her feel that no one else ever had. Suddenly, white, padded walls, three meals a day complete with medication and a straightjacket sounded like heaven compared to what she was willingly leading herself into. What she was leading them both into…_knowingly_.

He quickly straightened and rolled his shoulders, the apathy firmly back in place. "I'll get back to you," he said in short, clipped tones. And then - without an ounce of drama, without any theatrics, without so much as a simple 'later babes' - he was gone.

* * *

A snap of the fingers and the viewing portal between his world and Lydia's was closed.

"Gutsy little bitch," Beetlejuice muttered, turning away from the mirror and starting to pace, the low heels of his boots snapping harshly against the floor. "Gutsy little bitch who knows a hell of a lot more than she should."

He'd always known Lydia had been interested in the paranormal, had always had some strange connection to the dead that had existed long before the Maitland's had ever been part of her life. The girl had contemplated death, she had begged for it much the same way a heroin addict would beg for the next fix after having gone a few days without one. But knowing enough about the Afterlife to know how to bind a contract between the living and the dead? That was a whole new kind of obsessed.

And that contract? What a fucking joke! No haunting? Limited to sleep only on the couch or the guest room? No more talking about her inability to be faithful to their first deal? Not laying so much as a finger or an ounce of juice on the little witch? And that last part….those last two stupid conditions…

He released a bark of incredulous laughter, shaking his head.

Coffee every morning….showering and brushing his teeth on a daily basis….oh Ms. Deetz had some nerve.

He would almost rather stay right where he was…almost. The alternative – although there were several rather huge sacrifices involved – had its perks. The biggest being that he would be the hell out of this boring-ass purgatory. The second…that he would eliminate that ridiculous rule about keeping his hands off of her within a week…a week and a half tops.

_But do you want to?_

The rage that had fogged over his mind upon seeing that contract started to slip away. The feel of her soft, warm lips on his, the way she'd pressed herself to him, all willing heat and unrestrained passion-.

The panic that had settled in when kissing her provoked a surge of emotion that had nothing to do with revenge…every vivid image came slithering out of the deep confines he'd shoved them to after several long hours of arguing with himself over his own stupidity. How hard would it be to act like that never happened? To be around her, to talk to her whenever, to be able to…_smell_ her. Could he act like he felt nothing after what had happened between them? Sure, he could be just as vicious as the next poltergeist…but the second she so much as brushed by him the right way his sanity was going to be in shreds.

_And Juno would flip shit._

His footsteps slowed to a stop and he slowly drew himself up. Juno…this would drive her insane. But she wouldn't be able to do a damn thing about it. A contract between the living and the dead was made between two parties and those not involved had no say in how that contract was carried out. He would be free of the Afterlife. He would be free of his little hole in the wall of nothing. He would be free of her. And that…was worth any sacrifice.

That was enough motivation to make a final decision. But not enough to make him feel like Lydia Deets didn't deserve to sweat it out a little.

* * *

Lydia sat alone at the dining room table later that evening, a plate of half eaten lo-mien noodles in front of her. She poked at it with her fork, idly twirling the noodles around the tines. This was the seventh rotation…no eighth. Whatever…she'd lost tract. All she could think about, all she _had_ been thinking about all day was her stupidity in assuming Beetlejuice would agree to her written contract. She'd been so pathetically stupid, the complete opposite of what she had felt when writing out her terms. As she had written them, she'd felt nearly drunk with empowerment, believing that there was no way he would _not_ agree to what she was asking of him. Now? Now…she was uncertain if it was the noodles sitting badly in her stomach or the general all over sickness of having made demands of a sadistic poltergeist that was making her feel like throwing up.

Sighing, she braced her elbow on the table and dropped her head into her open palm.

"Babes."

Lydia gasped and sat up, dropping her fork. His voice was so close, she half expected him to be sitting right beside her. But she was still alone and a scan of the room proved that he wasn't lurking in any mirrors or other items of the household.

"Meet me upstairs."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Just do it."

She pushed away from the table, glaring at no one in general before emitting a sound of disgust and turning away from her cold supper. She took her time moving up the stairs, then moved confidently down the hallway and into her room. He may have been summoning her but she'd be damned if she showed up looking as intimidated and uncertain as she was. As he had been in the past, he was now waiting for her, leaning against the mirror with that unnerving calm. She was half tempted to ask him why, _why_ he always had to be…leaning. Could the man not be bothered to stand up straight for even a minute?

"Lyds," he greeted with a nod.

"Beej," she returned, hoping that the cold tone of her voice implied the same lack of interest he was emitting.

"Gimme the contract….and a pen."

She went still, a chill sweeping over her. He was…agreeing?

"Too stunned to move?" He chuckled darkly. "No worries, I got this."

The contract still lay on the vanity, open and facing him. The drawer of her vanity slid open and a pen levitated from the confines. He manipulated it and with a flourish signed what hardly passed for a name across the bottom of the paper, over her signature, over her blood. And it was done.

"Say the magic words, babes," he coaxed softly, waggling the pen in a teasing manner at her.

She swallowed hard, trying to shake off the numbness and think straight. She'd just made a deal with quite possibly the devil himself. Another deal. And unlike that first one…she had to follow through with this one. This was her idea…her contract.

"Come on, Lyds. Don't keep me waitin' all night."

_Do this Lydia. Quit standing here looking like you don't know what you're doing. You're an adult…not some depressed teen. Not anymore._

"Beetlejuice…"

And now he stood, pushing away from the mirror and leaning forward with an almost blood thirsty look on his face. He rubbed his hands together. "There ya go…"

"Beetlejuice…"

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and sealed her fate. "Beetlejuice."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Two in less than a week? My in-laws were babysitting my baby girl much of Sunday so I kind of took the day to veg and write like a mad woman. Though, I tell you what guys, these two characters fought with me a lot in this chapter. They wanted to get along a lot more than I wanted them to get along. I'm hoping there was just enough to make it believable. Thank you to Melody Winters again! You're fantastic woman! Thank you for being my beta. And huge thanks to inulover1993 for letting me use you as a person to vent on when this chapter got complicated. Voicing some of my frustrations over it actually did help me get things sorted out so HUGE thanks again! The rest of you, thank you so much for your reviews and support guys. I'm just seriously pleased that you guys are enjoying this fic so much. I hope you continue to do so! Much love!

Disclaimer: I do not own Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

**Truce**

For as cataclysmic as the moment was, there was certainly a lack of dramatics to go along with it. The room was silent, the temperature did not change. There was a shift in the atmosphere, a faint hum of unnatural electricity. But aside from that…nothing. If only she would open her eyes she might have some idea of what was going on. But she couldn't seem to do it. It wasn't terror that kept her from facing him, it wasn't anything related to fear at all. It was…uncertainty. Which…okay, so maybe that went hand in hand with fear a little bit but all she could really think about was how she was uncertain of him - what he was going to do…what _they_ were going to do. Would he be constantly judging her for the audacity of her proposal or …

_Will we just pick up where we left off last night…_

No, she'd put a stop to that with the contract. He wasn't allowed to touch her. Remembering that, she opened her eyes and faced a moment of pure self-disgust when a startle gasp slipped past her lips. He stood directly in front of her, dark eyes sparkling mischievously, that maddening grin firmly in place…and a finger…hovering just in front of her nose.

"Not touchin' ya," he somewhat sang. His voice wasn't horrible but it certainly was off key.

Emitting an unlady like snort, she swatted at the offending appendage. "Good to know you're just as annoying as you were years ago."

"I think you mean charming," he shot back with a waggle of his pale brows.

"Yeah, that's exactly what I meant," she muttered sarcastically, rolling her eyes and turning away from him. "If you'll excuse me…you interrupted my supper."

"Hey! Supper huh?" He took up a spot beside her, increasing her annoyance by floating along down the hallway with his hands shoved in the pockets of his stripped pants. "What're we havin'?"

"_I'm_ having Chinese." She shot him a haughty look. "You can have whatever you find crawling around." And there was that self-disgust again, hissing in the back of her head like an ugly, mangled snake. She didn't like being bitter. It wasn't her. It had never been her. Lonely…yes. Withdrawn to the point that people mistook her introvert ways for arrogance…yes. But never bitter. Sighing, she stopped and turned to face him. She couldn't help but notice that in the weak glow of the hallway sconces, he looked…almost normal. "I'm sorry."

The very statement seemed to startle him. He stopped floating and his feet lightly settled on the carpeted floor. "Sorry? For what?"

"For being so bitchy. Listen…I don't know why I'm here. I have no idea what's holding me to this place but thinking about leaving doesn't feel…_right_. And it felt even less right after that visit from Jane. Until I can figure out what I'm doing or even what I'm going to do…I just figured we could…keep each other company or something," she finished lamely, then pushed on, desperate to explain herself. Or at least explain everything _but_ the emotions she was still struggling with. "I don't mean like…you standing in a mirror or ghosting all over the house or whatever you want to call it. I wasn't kidding when I said talking to nothing but a voice was annoying. If you're here and I'm here we might as well both…be _here._ And a little civility might be worth trying." She grinned slightly at that last statement and added with a teasing lilt to her voice, "If that's something you know how to do."

"Hmm." He tapped his lacquered finger thoughtfully to his chin, an exaggerated frown of concentration pulling his lips downward. A forbidden ache of longing shot through her as she remembered those lips moving hypnotically against hers.

"Civility…been a while since I last tried it," he muttered, his words pulling her out of her brief lapse.

"Well," she patted him on the shoulder, giving him a sweet smile before turning her back on him and heading toward the stairs. "You can give it a try while you're working on the last of those rules. You've been here long enough to know where the bathroom and towels are."

"Wait…you want me to shower? Now? I just got here!"

"All the more reason to get it over with." With a smart wave, she started down the stairs, calling over her shoulder, "I'll set some food aside for you. Enjoy!"

His colorful, long-winded cursing followed her down to the first floor. But he didn't. She smiled, considering this to be her first - and quite possibly only - victory.

_Optimism, Lydia…try having a little._

He'd already surprised her by agreeing to her terms, by willingly giving into the rules she's laid out. Was it that surprising to believe that he would adhere to them as well? She pondered that question as her feet slowed at the landing and her hand lingered over the newel post. He really had no choice in whether or not he'd adhere to them. For the most part, he had to. But whether or not he would do so with a lack of animosity for her or any form of hostility was an entirely different matter. People could follow through on deals and remain decidedly unhappy about it. Would he be one of those people? Or would he follow along and make their new arrangement agreeable? Maybe even…fun?

"That might be asking for a bit much," she mused with a soft chuckle.

She settled into the task of reheating her supper, then skeptically filling a plate for Beetlejuice and heating his to the point of a sizzling steam so that it wouldn't go cold before he came downstairs. She returned both to the dining room table and slid into a chair, secretly enjoying the fact that her dinner had gone cold due to her distraction and Beetlejuice's sudden agreement. She had always enjoyed Lo-Mein much better when it was warmed up after having gone cold. The taste changed somewhat, subtly enough to notice a difference but not to the point that it was an entirely different meal. The same, she mused idly, did not go for wontons, however.

She was working on her last bite when Beetlejuice came skulking down the stairs, his shoulders hunched in defeat and a green and blue stripped towel hanging over his head. The shower was a mild improvement, only having removed the stains of age and dirt that had marred his pale skin. He wore the same clothing he'd shown up in – his black and white striped suit – though his feet were bare and she noted with mild amusement that his toenails were also painted red. The scowl on his face was that borderline pout again and she felt the sudden urge to giggle at seeing it. The Ghost with the Most reduced to a simpering toddler and all because of a shower…interesting.

"How was that for you?" she asked conversationally.

His gaze skirted to the food momentarily before he leveled a glare on her. "Probably a lot more enjoyable for you," he said, pulling the chair back and flopping into it. He ruffled the towel a bit over his hair then yanked it away, dropping it carelessly to the floor. His hair, clean and surprisingly blond, stuck up at several odd angles. When coupled with the sulky face, the image as a whole was too difficult not to laugh at. And Lydia covered her mouth before doing just that.

He spared her another glare, this one only slightly more antagonistic, before picking up his fork and starting in on his Lo-Mein.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, after having gained control of herself. "You know…you're kind of defeating the entire purpose of a shower by wearing the same clothes you had on before taking one."

Beetlejuice rolled his eyes and put his fork down. "You women gotta work on being a little bit easier to please." He snapped his fingers and his clothing was replaced by a pair of dark blue pajama pants with skulls and beetles scattered over the fabric and a plain white t-shirt. "Better?"

Lydia smiled and nodded. It was much better. Of course the "much" of that was what she was trying to avoid. If she was going to be honest with herself, he looked…

She stifled a sigh, dropped her elbow to the table and propped her chin in her open palm, trying to look shrewdly observational instead of openly fascinated. He looked amazing. But she couldn't tell him that. Even if she could, the chances of him believing her were slim, especially at this point in their warped relationship. What amazed her was that it wasn't all from the shower. Yes, he'd washed away centuries of dirt and grime and any other disgusting shred of the unknown. His hair looked much better clean, even if it was sticking up every which-way and giving her the distinct impression that it was trying to escape his scalp. But there was more to it than the simple improvement a shower had provided. The choice of plain clothing cultivated him almost as much as the simple act of sitting at a dining room table and eating a plate full of noodles did. He almost looked….human.

"You look good," she finally relented, taking the risk that he might or might not believe her words.

He glanced up, his mouth full of Lo-Mein and, without bothering to chew his food and swallow it first, said quite simply, "Thanks babes." He slurped up what remained, then leaned back in his chair and gave her a speculative look as he rubbed absently at his stomach. "What's with your look?"

That gave her pause. She slouched and crossed her arms loosely over her chest, frowning slightly and risking a brief glance at the relaxed, dark gray khaki slacks and teal silk cami edged in thin black lace. "My look?"

"Yeah. What happened to the moody-teen in all the gothic crap?"

"See, there's this thing…it's called growing up. We humans who are still amongst the living tend to do it on a daily basis."

"Man, you turned into a little smart ass," he said with a chuckle, shaking his head.

She couldn't resist smiling back, feeling much more at ease in his presence. "I guess I just grew out of it. After two years at college and finishing top in my art courses but gaining no recognition, I started to realize that years of looking unnoticeable made me just that. So I made the choice to stand out, to hold myself a little taller, to have a little bit of confidence in myself instead of just my work."

"How'd that turn out for ya?"

Her smile widened and she left the room, returning a moment later with a magazine that she dropped brusquely on the table in front of him. With a look of mild curiosity, he turned to the page that had been dog-eared by Charles Deetz moments after he'd received the magazine in the mail from his daughter. Lydia took her spot at the head of the table and watched as Beetlejuice leafed through the pages splashed tastefully with pictures of her art. He looked as if he were taking some modicum of appreciation in what he was seeing, though he could have been faking it just to indulge her on some level and prevent possible feminine outbursts. She'd seen her father do this to Delia several times throughout the course of their marriage.

"Landing my first show at one of the more respected galleries on the east coast made me think I should probably be dressing the part of a respectable artist who wants to go places."

"Nice work, Lyds," he said with surprising sincerity, closing the magazine and giving her his full attention. "Glad to know ya didn't lose that cryptic edge."

She snorted softly. "People like dark, sadistic and twisted in their art but not in the people selling that art. Go figure."

"Betcha 'ol Chuckie's prouder than shit, huh?"

The smile fell away and the bitter resentment that always bubbled up at the mention of her parents crawled over her, sinking in its nasty, spite-filled claws. "Wouldn't know. I don't really talk to them anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because Delia wasn't exactly pleased that I landed a show at the gallery she's been trying to get into for the past seven years."

They both lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Lydia kept her gaze fixed on the table, feeling every ounce of the pathetic teenager she once was. What was the point in telling him that? She didn't want his pity. She just wanted…

An image of them suddenly flashed in her mind – their bodies tangled, their mouths moving in an erotic, sensual rhythm, sweat glistening in the glow of candlelight, her moaning as he pulled her head back and slid his tongue over her neck-.

She was going to need a therapist by the time all of this was over.

"Hey," he suddenly spoke up, breaking the tension. "How's about we continue this in the kitchen with some alcohol and a couple smokes?" He stood and offered his arm with a slightly dramatic flair that had her watching him cautiously. "Come on, babes. No suggestion in holdin' a guys arm." Then, with a bit of a leer he added, "unless you want me to be suggestin' somethin'?"

Though crude and irritating, it was a welcome intrusion to the conflict of emotions warring violently within her and she grabbed at it desperately. She stood and slid her arm through his, concerned with nothing more than having any thought regarding her parents out of her head. If he wanted to play at being nice, she didn't even care right now. She'd take him playing her over the stinging ache of losing yet another parent. "I'm guessing you don't have any cigarettes of your own."

"You're guessin' right babes."

"Of course."

They moved into the kitchen and Lydia started for the cupboard her father had left his less expensive liquor in. Beetlejuices hand on hers stopped her. "Have a seat, babes. I got this. You want somethin' easy or somethin' special? Well…being that you're in the presence of greatness you kinda already got yourself somethin' special."

She found herself laughing at his arrogance. "You have no sense of modesty at all, do you?"

Glancing over his shoulder as he dug through the cabinet for something worth making a drink out of, he grinned and winked. "Not a shred."

Okay, so this entire situation could be highly interesting and entertaining if they just stayed like this – calm, easy…civil. "Can you make a Black Russian?"

"The real deal or the drink? Cuz I'll tell ya what, babes. The real deal…those are hard to come by." he joked.

"Beej-." She tried for a warning tone which was near impossible through the laughter she was failing to suppress.

"Yeah, I can make a Black Russian. Smoke?"

She pulled a pack from one of the drawers beside the oven, getting one for herself as well, then sitting back and watching him as he pieced together the drinks, the lit cigarette dangling between his lips and his hands moving quickly as if he'd been born behind a bar. That part of her that continually fought what she felt for the ghost was starting to falter.

He presented her drink with a flourish, sending it sliding across the table at her. It would have landed directly in her lap had she not reached out to stop it. She shot him a shrewd look before lifting the glass and taking a sip, her eyes remaining on him as he plunked down in the chair across from her and propped one bare foot on the chair between them. He used his own finger to stir the liquor, then licked it clean, smacking his lips in an almost childish manner that promptly quelled all arousing thoughts of that mouth doing much the same thing to parts of her.

"So, Lyds the artist, livin' in some fancy-ass city and doin' all that…" he waved his hand in the air, grasping for something to say before settling with, "artsy shit. Guess you got everything you wanted outta life, huh?"

Lydia pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and chewed at it, dropping her eyes to her drink and watching the cream swirl in a drunken dance with the darker liquid. "Maybe," she muttered, then much more quietly, "Probably not."

"Looks like ya got a little bit of that moody brat still hangin' around inside ya somewhere."

She cast him a sneer of near loathing over the rim of her glass, then tipped it back and let the liquor burn a trail of scalding heat down her throat. "I really doubt I'm half of who I used to be. And it's nothing about being depressed. They're adult things. I guess…life just turned out to be a little more complicated than I thought it would be."

"Shit babes, everything about life is complicated. Even bein' dead is complicated," he muttered, saluting her with his glass before downing his drink as if it were nothing more than a shot. He slammed the empty glass down on the table, then clamped his cigarette between his teeth. "Thought you knew that."

"This isn't complicated," she attempted to argue; though the words fell flat of the truth and she knew it. "Sitting at the table, having a smoke, drinking dad's cheapest stock, sitting in a house in the middle of this tiny ass town-."

"Yeah, nothing complicated about _that_ part. Throw a contract with a fuckin' poltergeist into the mix and that pretty much complicates the shit out of it."

She glanced up and was mildly shocked to see him smiling. The only thing more shocking than that…was that she could feel her lips twisting, pulling up to smile back at him against her will. "You didn't have to sign the contract, Beej."

"I know."

"Then why did you?"

Beetlejuice shrugged his shoulders before pushing away from the table and going to the cupboard to grab a bottle of vodka. He flipped the light switch on the wall, throwing the room into shadows broken up only by the overhead light of the stove, then returned to the table. He twisted the cap off of the bottle of vodka and took a long pull directly from it before setting it between them. "Hell if I know, babes. Because I was bored. Because I want payback. Because I wanted to piss Juno off. Pick one."

Well, at least he was honest. "No thanks," she returned dryly, still smiling. "Not a single one of those options really makes me feel that great about our current situation."

"You want to feel great about the situation?" He raised his hands and made quotation marks in the air with his fingers at the word 'situation', all the while giving her that look that said quite clearly '_I want to do bad things to you.' _"I could think of a few things."

She hummed softly and drained the rest of her liquor. "I'm sure you could. But I'll pass, thanks."

Another shrug. "Can't blame a guy for tryin'."

And she couldn't really. If things were different, she would probably be trying as well. But they weren't. They were confusing and chaotic and everything she truly wished they weren't. She reached forward and snagged the bottle, holding it to her lips and tilting it back. The taste of him hit her first, sending a dizzying thrill through her, chased by the harsh bite of straight vodka.

She set the bottle down, sliding it slightly towards him as she wiped at her mouth with the back of her arm. "Think we'll be able to get through this without killing each other?"

It was a joke…somewhat. But he answered seriously. "I'm already dead, Lyds."

"Okay." She hesitated, watching him carefully and then adding, "Can you make it through this without killing me?"

Something flickered in his eyes and for once it wasn't anything laced with cruelty. For one brief moment, he looked as vulnerable as she felt. He was quick to mask it, to wipe any emotion from his face. "Guess we'll see," he said, his tone noncommittal.

With no hint of malice, his insinuation held no threat. And as much as she hated it, hope for what they could be started to blossom deep within her, undeterred by that tiny bit of her that had given up fighting against what she was feeling.

"Try not to tonight," she teased, grounding out her cigarette and standing, deciding that she would be far better off leaving the room and putting some distance between them. "See you in the morning."

It felt strange, leaving him there at the kitchen table with a half a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of vodka - both of which would probably be gone in the morning. It was almost as if she were a guest in his home. But staying there with him, tempting emotions that were already frighteningly out of control…she just couldn't.

Once in her room, she shut the door, then leaned back against it, her hand still loosely gripping the knob. Would there be a point to locking it? He was a ghost. No lock could hold him. But a contract with a living individual could.

Her gaze skittered to the piece of condemning paper, still sitting on her vanity. She crossed the floor, carefully picked it up along with the pen still lying beside it and sat down on her bed, looking over the words she'd so carefully chosen to write.

She'd been fair…hadn't she? She must have been because he was treating her with a lot less hostility than she thought she deserved after everything she had asked….no, _demanded_ of him. A lot less. So much so that she almost wanted to question what his motives were. The way he'd touched her though, the way he'd kissed her with such reverence…it changed her mind. And there was the fact that he'd so easily picked up on her little melt-downs and stopped them. There was something there though– something mutual. And that feeling that there was something mutual was easing the ache of loss surrounding Adam and Barbara. It was making it a little less complicated to deal with the betrayal she felt over her father and step-mothers slow extraction from her life. It was putting a spark she'd been missing back into her lackluster life.

If she wanted to psychoanalyze the situation, she could chalk it up to abandonment issues. She could factor in her detachment from reality at such a young age, her preference for strange, unexplainable phenomenon's, her love of anything related to the paranormal. It could be some kind of psycho-savantism or another term equally impressive that she could come up with off the top of her head that she would never be able to fully understand. In short…she could make it much more complicated than it really was.

What it all amounted to was something so ridiculously uncomplicated. She wanted to be with him. Regardless of how wrong it was, regardless of how strange this would seem to someone who _wasn't_ her…she wanted him. And wanting to be with him was never going to be an option with the rules she had so clearly laid out and the conditions for breaking said rules. She lay down and rolled onto her stomach, spreading the piece of paper over her comforter. There was space at the bottom…just enough.

She mulled over her thoughts a moment longer, then made her choice and started to write.

_If permission is given or any decision made by Lydia M. Deetz that are in direct conflict with each stipulation stated at any time throughout the duration of this contract, contract shall be null and void immediately. _

She had no idea if her addition would be effective, given the contract had already been signed. A very large part of her hoped that it would be.

* * *

**A/N: **For anyone possibly offended by the Black Russian comment Beetlejuice made, I sincerely apologize. Once I wrote it I started thinking about taking it back, thinking it may cause some people to get a little angry and think that I'm racist (I'm not in any way at all) but I could totally see Beetlejuice cracking a joke like that so I took the risk and kept it in.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** The muse has struck for this fic. And THANK GOD! I've never been this involved with any fic I've done before – to the point that I'm pouring over every version of the movie script, watching old cartoons, researching points of time in which noteworthy events took place – it's incredible. I'm riddin' a fic high! Hope ya'll are having fun riding it with me! And…um…forgive the emotional angst. But it's a relationship – a messed up one – but a relationship none the less that two people are trying to sort through and I guess this is just how I see them sorting through it.

A HUGE thanks to both Mikell and Melody Winters for not only helping me muddle through future issues with this fic but being two of the greatest friends and beta's a girl could ask for! Love you girls!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic. The usual ;)

**Gray Areas**

The old house still creaked as it settled – a constant condition of age given the way the renovations had been built around the existing frame rather than created from new material. Charles Deetz may have been a snob about prime real-estate, but he knew shit about reconstruction. In the stillness of the early morning hours, cast in eerie, elongated shadows from the few dim lights that remained on, the house may have been somewhat disturbing to a human. To Beetlejuice – it was relaxing. Sure, it wasn't his choice digs in the field of haunting, but he could think of a lot worse. Besides, he wasn't haunting thanks to that damn contract. Still, he couldn't deny that there was something decidedly comforting about the silence, especially without Delia's shrill vocals constantly destroying it. And this silence wasn't the kind that existed in his little hole-in-the-wall-hell. It was the kind of silence that existed in the house of flesh and blood woman who'd blind-sided him repeatedly and who was either insane enough or stupid enough to trust having him free and under the same roof. Which of them won out was still kind of a gray area for him.

A contemplative frown pulled at Beetlejuice's features as he sank further into his chair, propping his feet up on the chair Lydia had vacated and crossing them at the ankle. He was trying to maintain some tentative grasp on the entire idea of vengeance, though it was growing near impossible to do so. Damn Lydia for being the exact opposite of what he had expected her to _ever_ be. He had never thought for one minute that she would tack on a few extra years while still being the morose brat she had been. But at the same time…he'd never expected her to grow into a confident woman that could face the likes of him with even the slightest degree of compassion. She had though. And to top it all off, she's apologized to him…_him. _Sure, it wasn't the apology he'd originally wanted, the one that sounded like something along the lines of "I'm sorry I didn't marry you and stood back to watch while you got eaten by a sandworm." It was an apology though.

That feeling that he had gone disgustingly soft and pathetic started to creep over him again, persistent and annoying as shit. He attempted to wash it away with a quick shot of vodka chased by an impossibly long drag from his half finished cigarette that would have left a breather damn near hacking up a lung.

Then…he forcefully shifted gears. He took every conflicting, nauseating emotion he had when it came to the dark eyed little witch, and put it into one last-ditch attempt to hate everything Lydia Deetz was.

_You don't want to hate her though. Nu-uh. You want to do the exact opposite of hate her. Isn't that what last night was about? If you hated her…you would have taken what she was giving without thinking. You would have been greedy and you wouldn't have given a shit how much you would have hurt her. _

"Shut up," he muttered, refilling the shot class for the umpteenth time, cigarette clamped between his teeth.

_Feel pretty good to have the tables turned? To be the one talking to voices?_

"Fuck off."

_Come up with more than two word come-backs and maybe I'll consider it._

Beetlejuice gritted his teeth and screwed his eyes shut, willing his voice of reason to be silent. He was furious that the words were gaining purchase through the turmoil already taking up too much space in his head, furious that he'd managed to let what little scrap of loathing he'd started to build up slip away. The entire appeal of agreeing to every goddamned stipulation was so that he could be free of Juno's Nazi-like regime and play Ms. Deetz in any way possible to ensure that she paid for-.

_For what? Something that happened when she was a kid? Something that happened after ten minutes of knowing her and deciding that she looked hot enough to hitch yourself to so why not? And let's not forget the fact that she never actually said yes…you did it for her. Face it, Beej. You don't want to play her. You want to play _with_ her. Note the distinct difference. _

It was noted, complete with visual. Beetlejuice swore loudly, jerking up in his chair. He snatched the bottle of vodka, put it to his lips and tilted his head back. It was at times like these, when liquor was washing down his throat and feeling like nothing more than cold frustration, that he really wished he _was_ alive. He wanted to feel the sting of it, to have it dull his senses so he could just stop thinking about Lydia - about the way she'd made a solid effort to be friendly to him, about those damned eyes, about that body that had been so willing under his hands. And most of all, he wanted to be drunk as hell so that when his voice of reason spoke, it was nothing more than an annoying cricket-like chirp.

_Ain't nothin' doin', _he thought miserably, slamming the empty bottle down on the table with nearly enough force to shatter it.

He grasped desperately at any remaining straws, racking his brain. Maybe there was somthin' about her that could reinforce those glorious feelings of vengeance.

Inspired, he pushed away from the table and moved upstairs. The bathroom light had been left on and he tilted his head to the side slightly, trying to remember whether or not he'd left it on. Not that it mattered. Either he had or she had. He shrugged and ghosted through the open door, going straight to the medicine cabinet and pulling it open. The usual collection of toiletries dominated the shelves – perfumes, glass jars filled with q-tips and cotton balls, razor refills, lotions. The top shelf though - that sweet little baby – now _that_ made him smile. It was stuffed with orange bottles; all labeled neatly, all very clearly stating that they were prescription drugs.

He started looking through them, tossing anything that didn't belong to Lydia in the sink while muttering to himself.

"Delia…Delia…Ghost with the goddamned most…six hundred years of not givin' a shit about anyone and this little brat comes along and makes me…uuugh…_feel_ stuff. Delia…Delia…Delia-. Fuck…can you even mix half this shit? And what the hell is she bein' nice for anyway? What's in it for her? Doesn't even know why she's hangin' around this place…Delia…Delia-."

The last bottle was thrown irritably into the collection spilling out of the sink, sending several of those already cast aside spinning over the countertop and clattering to the floor. Nothing…not a damn thing. Nothing for anti-depression which meant she'd gotten that little shit-storm under control. No uppers meaning her kindness towards him was entirely non-drug induced. No downers which mean that her little spells were just that…spells.

He leaned over the counter, sneering disdainfully at the bottles and the choice of tasteless marbled ceramic. He knew he was just snatching at tiny, spider-web thin threads right now, looking for reasons to hate Lydia. He knew this about as much as he knew, damn her living soul, that he _couldn't_ hate her. Sure, he could make up a million damned excuses to try to hide the truth of the matter. But the truth was…she fascinated him. What she was, what she'd become, the way she moved with all that confident sassiness that really got him worked up. Knowing she wanted him….well now, that was just the hot little cherry on the top. And that kiss…hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually _felt_ anything akin to affection for a living being. Damn, a _dead_ being for that matter. The way her lips had moved on his and the taste of them, like rich whiskey and honey…he'd give his entire afterlife to taste that again.

With a defeated sigh, he pulled the wastebasket out from under the sink and filled it with the contents of Delia's little drug-stash, musing over how the woman could possibly still be alive, popping that many pills into her system on a daily basis. Probably a good thing she was. That woman in the waiting room? He'd feel pity for any…_any…_poor spectral sap dealing with that shit. Hell, he'd feel sorry for Juno. And he _never_ felt sorry for Juno.

He flipped the switch on his way out, started down the hallway and came to a stop at Lydia's door. For the longest time he floated there, staring at it, wondering what the hell he'd gotten himself into. She ruled him. She _owned _him. And as much as he was trying to…he couldn't replace any of the admiration or curiosity with even the slightest bit of animosity. She'd worked him over without even trying.

"Damn meddling little bitch," he muttered, his voice lacking any hostility. He almost sounded like he was…complimenting her. Right about now would be the time he'd be puking his guts out…if he could…and if he had any. Which, sadly, he did not.

He turned from the door, muttering an endless stream of curses under his breath as he continued down the stairs and into the living room where the couch sat waiting. Not Lydia…the couch. Damn it. He sank onto it, juiced a blanket, then did the only thing he could do to shut every nagging, annoying voice, up. He went to sleep.

* * *

Being a ghost required next to no sleep, if any at all. The entire concept of sleep was something they could, if they wanted to, entertain every once and a while when the urge to do so struck. Or, in Beetlejuices case, if you had a head full of conflicting crap that pissed you off on a regular basis and sleep was the only option to make it stop for a few hours. The unfortunate side affect of sleep when you were a ghost, however…was that you woke up feeling the same way you did when entering into the world of the dead for the first time – groggy, disorientated and almost painfully lethargic.

Beetlejuice squinted into the gray, early morning light as his body adjusted to a wakeful state. His thoughts were immediately on Lydia and he found, with mild shock and a good dose of disgust, that he was feeling a bit more optimistic about the situation they were in now that he'd had some time to _not_ think. The idea of revenge no longer held any appeal…which was strange even for him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt anything but distaste, loathing and an all consuming sense of vengeance for the living. Lydia though…damned if that girl didn't rub him an entirely different way. He grinned lecherously at the thought, replaying a few choice images from that damn night that had changed everything.

Without that driving need to do something disgustingly vile to Lydia…all that was really left was…what was it? Well, whatever was left was a hell of a lot more complicated.

"Fuckin' human emotions," he muttered, lazily floating off the couch and toward the ceiling.

A knock interrupted the silence and he turned his head slowly to the side, staring at the front door. He watched it dumbly for a moment, wondering if he'd imagined the sound. Then it came again, more insistently.

_Aint even eight o'clock yet. Who the hell would come knockin' this early? _

A smile suddenly lit his face – twisted and entirely demonic. Someone _had_ come a'callin' that early…about two days ago. Little Miss Janey Butterfield. And she'd pissed Lydia right off.

Beetlejuice righted himself, chuckling darkly. His hands may have been tied when it came to scaring the living shit out of people…but that didn't mean he couldn't toy with them a bit.

The knock came yet again, this time accompanied by a muffled voice that's pitch alone grated on his nerves. Unholy hell, she was worse than Delia. "Ms. Deetz? Ms. Deetz, I know you're home."

"Impatient little broad, ain't she?" Beetlejuice muttered. "Well…let's not keep Miss Stick-up-her-ass waiting."

One snap of the fingers and he was dressed in nothing more than black, silk boxers and a blood-red silk robe. Ridiculous, fuzzy black slippers adorned his feet and a cigarette dangled between his fingers. He tilted his head contemplatively to the side, then snapped his fingers again. A glass of deep red wine appeared before him, hovering in the air. He took it and barked out a "Yeah, yeah…I'm comin'! Keep yer fuckin' panties on!" when the impatient knock came yet again.

He went to the front door and jerked it open. Jane Butterfield – all starched lace and bland formality – startled slightly, her dainty hand lifting to her throat and her dull eyes widening.

Taking advantage, and a small amount of joy, in Jane's momentary shock, Beetlejuice leaned against the doorjamb, tipped back the glass of wine, then lowered it and brought his cigarette to his mouth, holding it between his lips so that he could scratch his stomach while giving the stiff woman a slow once-over.

Finally, when the silence got a little boring, he muttered a simple, "Yeah?"

"I…um…I was…" the woman stuttered. She pulled herself together, pressing back her already meticulously straightened shoulders and sticking her nose disdainfully in the air. "I am looking for Miss Lydia Deetz. Is she here?"

"Lyds? Yeah, she's here, alright." He leaned forward and lifted his hand to his mouth, offering a wicked smile full of suggestion. "She's a bit tied up…if ya know what I mean."

Jane's face paled considerably. Ohhh, she knew _exactly_ what he meant.

"That Lyds – she's got a hell of a kinky side. All S&M…whips and chains…leather and hot wax…that kinda shit. Maybe I can help ya," he said, adding an evocative waggle of his brows. "Though I gotta tell ya, lady – with the way Lyd's is keepin' me busy…might not be enough juice left in these old bones to show ya what kinda damage I can _really_ do. Gimme a few hours." He reached for the crotch of his boxers, adjusting them and hoping that Miss Starch and Lace Butterfield got a look at the goods. Judging from the strangled sound that left her and the way her eyes grew considerably larger, he'd say that she'd gotten an eye-full. "If ya come back later I'll rock yer world five ways from-."

"No!" she quickly exclaimed, staggering away from him. She nearly lost her balance when her foot left the porch all together. A mad grab for the railing stopped that welcome tragedy from happening. _Pity,_ Beetlejuice thought.

"No, no…that's quite alright. Just…um…just tell her that Jane Butterfield stopped by. She has my card but -."

She started to reach for the oversized bag hanging from her shoulder and it was right then that Beetlejuice decided he'd had enough bending of the rules. He muttered a drab, "Yup…sure…Butterfield…got it," and slammed the door right in Jane's gaping, mouse-like face. He cackled as he turned away from the door, satisfaction unlike anything he'd known for quite some time rushing through him. Of course, it would be short lived. Of _course_ Lydia would be standing at the foot of the steps, arms crossed over that mouth-watering chest and one delicate brown arched.

"That wasn't anything juice related," he said, quick to defend himself.

"What would you call it then?" she asked, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips. "Uh…a gray area?"

"A gray area," she muttered dryly. "Sure it was. Coffee?"

"Rat shit!"

She started for the kitchen, her laughter winding around him. And he followed, feeling like a completely smitten moron…but unable to resist the sound of pure happiness from the lips that had haunted his dreams.

* * *

A/N: The phrase "rat shit" is actually pulled from the first, unrevised script. It seemed to be BJ's choice phrase of complete frustration. Lol.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Hey hey! How are all my lovely reviewers? I hope the word fantastic comes to mind! Before we start this shin-dig I want to thank all of my reviewers. You guys pretty much kick all the ass. True story. Lol. (Yeah…Drea's in a really good mood…just go with it). I want to thank my beta's and hope they be irritated that I had zero patience when it came to getting anything back from them and posted an update before they could go over it. Thanks guys! You know I love you all. And I think that's about it. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

**Whatever Lola Wants**

Lydia had chosen to go easy on him and make the coffee herself which allowed Beetlejuice the opportunity to entertain the favored past time of men everywhere – rehashing every glorious (and slightly embellished, she was sure) detail of his chat with Jane Butterfield, complete with wild, overly dramatic gestures.

"Did ya see the way she almost went backwards off the damn stairs? Man, that woulda been classic. Kinda like you fallin' on yer ass when I scared ya." He paused to glance at Lydia from his spot across the table from her. Dropping his hands, he gave her a vulgar, crooked grin. "View probably wouldn't have been as interesting."

"Thanks," Lydia muttered. She was trying not to smile at the unadulterated excitement he was displaying. It must have been a long time since he'd really let loose if horrifying Jane with nasty sexual innuendos was getting him this worked up. She almost felt guilty for reining him in and probably would have if she hadn't also been fighting with the hot pleasure that had spiraled through her with his back-handed compliment.

She quickly shoved it aside and fixed a wry look on her face, intent on not facing any of those conflicting feelings this early in the morning with absolutely no coffee in her system. "So…hot wax and S&M?"

He didn't bother with guilt or shame…not even the slightest trace of it. Instead, his grin widened. "Are ya?"

"Shut up and get me a cup of coffee."

"Bet you are!" He cackled, then lifted a finger and popped a questioning brow. "Eh?"

"It's not that hard to get your ass out of the chair and get it, Beej."

"Right back atcha, Babes. Come on," he coaxed. "This way neither of us has to get up. "Sides, it's getting' coffee. I ain't hurtin' anyone."

Lydia gave in with a sigh, dropping her head back. "Fine."

A victorious shout of laughter accompanied the derisive snap and a hot cup of coffee was suddenly in front of her. She picked it up and watched him over the rim of her maroon mug while slowly savoring a liberally caffeinated liquid burn.

He was still in the robe and boxers, seemingly unashamed of his appearance. Not that there was anything to be truly ashamed of. Yes, he was dead so the ghostly pallor was a rather constant thing. He had the slightest hint of a gut, almost as if he'd dove into the habit of over-indulgence before he had died. He was still muscular though, in the way a man who had known a good day's work was.

He'd juiced himself a cup of coffee as well and was reclining in his chair, taking grossly obnoxious sips. His slippered feet were propped on the chair between them. With mild irritation she contemplated the way his feet always seemed to be on her furniture.

_Good thing he'll be taking regular showers._

With his attention diverted, she let her eyes roam over his exposed body. There was an underlying thrill of forbidden temptation, but overriding that was the curiosity over what exactly had happened to him. There was nothing on his body that suggested a gruesome death – no festering, open wounds, not a single mark that would hint at a stabbing. What had happened to him then?

"So Lyds, whaddaya do to keep yourself busy around this place?"

She hummed softly, lowering her eyes before he turned to her and slowly looking up as if she hadn't been staring intently at him for the past several minutes.

"Dullsville Babes…whaddaya do to liven shit up around here?" he reiterated.

She shrugged, then frowned, realizing that she literally had nothing to do. She'd run out of the mundane tasks that had kept her busy up until his appearance. All necessities had been hooked up, refilled, re-connected. She'd cleaned the house to the point that she could live there without feeling disgusted by the layer of dust caked on every surface. There was really only one thing left to be done and _that_ room she could only spare passing glances at, her heartsickness over Adam and Barbara's absence making it difficult to face packing away the last of their belongings.

"You could help me with that," she suggested gesturing to the room. She was suddenly desperate for his company. Maybe it would be easier to get through with someone there to talk to and distract her.

He glanced over his shoulder and sneered. "Help you with the Maitland's crap?"

"Well…I don't really have a whole lot to do. It's Sunday. Nothing's open and I don't really need to get in touch with any clients until tomorrow. So for me it's either clean…or sit in the dark and develop pictures."

"We could sit in the dark and fuck like rabbits."

Lydia started slightly in the middle of taking a sip of her coffee, sputtering on the hot liquid. "What?"

"I said let's clean then, damn it!" he replied, smiling wildly and forcing a look of excited innocence.

Lydia didn't bother with the pretense of being irritated, shaking her head and grinning wryly. She'd known getting into this how crude and obnoxious he was. Expecting him to be anything but was being unrealistic.

"I'm sure that's exactly what you said." She pushed away from the table and started around it, placing a hand on his shoulder and savoring the confusing thrill of longing that ripped through her at the simple contact. "I'm going to go grab a quick shower and change. Be down in a bit."

"Right," he muttered back, glancing down at her hand. She saw his own twitch curiously, almost as if he were going to lift it, but the moment passed and she let hers fall away. "Need a hand?" he leered up at her, waggling his shaggy brows.

"Not in the slightest," she muttered back, leaving him alone in the kitchen and retreating up to the steamy confines of the bathroom where she could make another failed effort to sort out her own conflicting emotions yet again.

* * *

"What the hell are ya gonna do with all this stuff, anyway?"

Across the room, sleeves of her sweatshirt hiked up to mid-arm and tight fitting jeans making it far too easy to picture her without them, Lydia stalled in the process of carefully placing miniature houses into a large box and looked up toward the ceiling where he hovered.

"Probably store it in the attic." She tilted her head to the side and smiled. "Are you actually going to help or just float up there all day?"

"Hey, I've been helping!" he protested.

"Beej, making suggestive comments on things you could do to my 'box' isn't helping. It's just being disgusting." She got up from her kneeling position, brushing sawdust off her jeans, then popped her hip and planted her fist on it. "Come on. You said you'd help."

"Hmm," he shifted and angled himself horizontally, folding his arms under his chin. "What's in it for me?"

"Pizza and beer?"

"Um…dead, remember? Food doesn't really do much for me. Try again."

Her head tilted a little further to the side and damned if he didn't find the small gesture cute as hell. "If food doesn't do anything for you, then why do you eat it? For that matter…why are you so focused on all the sexual crap? If you're dead, can you even…" she shifted her gaze lower, silently conveying her point.

"Hey!" He cried indignantly, sitting upright. "Don't you go suggesting that all parts aren't in working order, Babes. Because I assure you they are! I'll prove it!"

"No need for that," she mused softly while crossing her arms over her chest.

Glowering, he lowered himself to the ground. "You don't look convinced. Seriously…if you need it, I'm up for the-."

"Beej, stop it!" she laughed.

The sound struck him. He couldn't remember ever hearing Lydia laugh, let alone at something he'd said. It wasn't even fake laughter or nervous laughter like he was usually subjected to. The melodic sound trilled beautifully from her full lips of her own free will and her eyes sparkled.

_Jeezus, when did those lips get so damn full? Did she have work done or somethin'?_

Her laughter tapered off, something he didn't notice with as focused on her lips as he suddenly was.

"Beej?"

_Busted_. He quickly jerked his gaze to the side, feigning interest in a box peeking out from the dark confines of a closet not far behind her. "Thought you said you hadn't done anything in here yet?"

Her attention was successfully diverted as she turned and saw the box. " I didn't do that."

"Well, I didn't do it."

He followed her to the corner closet, looking over her shoulder at what appeared to be a cluttered mess of old movies and memorabilia. Lydia knelt beside it and reached in, pulling free a framed photo of Greta Garbo. The actresses name was scrawled across the bottom, complete with a short message written to Adam.

"To my dearest Adam. Good luck with your vows," Lydia read, running a finger over the gilded frame.

"The guy may have had some strange as hell hobbies, but I'll give him credit for having good taste in movies."

Lydia veered back, dropping the picture and staring up at him in shock.

"What?"

"I…well…I just figured you'd be more into slasher movies," she spluttered.

Beetlejuice shrugged and sat down beside her, leaning back against the wall. He pulled a few movies from the collection. "Well, yeah. Who doesn't love a good slasher flick? But ya can't beat a classic. Cary Grant, Sinatra, James Steward…those guys knew how to act and they had all the right moves for snaggin' some prime pieces of ass on and off the damn dance floor."

"What would you know about moves?" Lydia muttered, starting her foray through the collection again.

Beetlejuice scoffed and tossed the movies back in the box. "Been around well over a couple hundred years, Babes. You don't think a guy would pick up a few tricks?" Inspired, he jumped up and held a hand out to her. "Come on, I'll show ya."

She stared warily at his hand, as if she expected it to grow hair and fangs and devour her. He could make that happen, but the idea of dancing with her and having that lithe little body pressed against his was far more tempting.

"Live a little, Lyds. Ever tried that?"

"Have you?" she bit back, smiling wickedly.

He rolled his eyes and made the decision for her, reaching down to take her hand and hauling her slight weight up from the floor. Startled, she fell against him, her free hand splaying over his chest. Even though he wore a shirt, he could still feel the burn of her skin through the fabric and the wild trip of her pulse against his cold hand. _Oh, the things she's never gonna be able to hide from me_, he thought with a devious grin.

"What'll it be, Babes? Waltz, two step, fox trot?" He lowered his voice. "Maybe a little Argentine Tango?"

That sparked something. Her eyes went wide, turning a warm, liquid brown. If he had a working heart, the look she was giving him would have had it racing to match hers. Damn little witch. What the hell was she doing to him?

"You know the Argentine Tango?"

"Course I do. Ghost with the most, remember?"

"How could I possibly forget?"

And now she was teasing him! Her lips were turned up in an impish smile that he wanted nothing more than to kiss from her beautiful face.

"Show me."

His stomach lurched…actually lurched. It caught him completely off guard. He had felt a very small range of emotions over the course of his afterlife – hysterical glee over a good haunt, anger and hatred towards the majority of every breather walking the face of the earth…and some of the schmucks he'd known in the Afterlife. He'd known brief moments of satisfaction in the cold, unemotional arms of a woman. But he hadn't, even with all of the womanizing he'd done, felt this…_good_. And whatever this emotional crap was, it was a strange, nerve-wracking _thing_ that he couldn't name. He knew he lusted after Lydia. Hell, what man wouldn't? But this…it was something entirely different.

_Go with it. See what happens…_

Beetlejuice slid an arm around her waist, letting his hand fall dangerously low and sweeping it up the delicate curve her spine, eliminating the smallest amount of space between them.

"Well…if we're gonna tango…then we need a change of clothing here."

Her sweatshirt fell away, leaving in its wake a clinging slip of diamonds and black lace that hugged her curves, the skirt riding extremely high and slit up the side to expose every bit of her long legs. The heels were high…dangerously high. And the look of reserved pleasure and shock on her face was worth every bit of that danger.

Not to be outdone, he quickly fashioned himself a fitted suit of the high class variety, a black silk shirt, a black fedora that perched forward at an angel, and topped the ensemble off with a cigarette.

Another quick nod and the thick drapes were pulled over the windows. The sun shone weakly through the thick red fabric, giving the space the feel of a backroom brothel in the middle of Spain where the women used the power of their sensual movements to draw in their meal tickets.

He lowered his head, stopping shy of her lips and savoring a moment of pure male satisfaction when her breath caught. "Follow my lead, Lola."

"Lola?"

The music started – slow, sultry and erotic.

"Ah, Lola…got it," she murmured with a smile, gasping when he gently kicked her foot back, forcing her leg to slide into a graceful lunge as he dipped her low.

"Think you can keep up at all?" he teased.

Her hand tightened determinedly around his and she drew her leg forward, straightening. Boldly, she pressed her body to his then lifted that same leg, sliding it sensually up his leg and around his hip.

"I think I could surprise you."

It was a task in itself to keep a straight face, to not let her know just how crazy she was driving him with those eyes, those damned lips, her body that was so incredibly warm and pliant in his hands. It was a fucking miracle he didn't shudder like some pathetic high school freshman in the back seat of a car with the prom queen or some shit like that. Unnerving…all of it. Extremely…fucking…unnerving.

He spun her away, keeping his arm around her waist and drawing her against him, suppressing a groan when she pressed her back to his chest, her hand riding his hip and a look of pure seductive exhilaration on her face.

Damn it, she could move. He hadn't expected that. A constant surprise his little Lydia was turning out to be. For every spin, every carefully executed lift, every dip and sweep she was right there, moving flawlessly with him as if she'd been dancing all her life.

"Looks like I'm not the only one who knows my shit," he murmured appreciatively.

She made a humming noise as she walked slowly around him, the tips of her fingers trailing the line of his collar bone and shoulder. He briefly entertained the thought of grabbing that hand, throwing her on the couch and screwing her brains out. This little game they were playing was getting risky and he had no damned clue as to how long he could hold up against it.

"Well known photographers get invites – dinners, art shows, extravagant balls held by people who don't really give a shit which way they throw their money. If you want that money, you make an impression. You don't show up with two left feet. You show up and impress them so that they'll throw some of that cash your way."

"Well." He gave into the temptation to grab the hand teasing him, though the couch never came into play. Instead, he whipped her out and drew her back, his nose brushing hers and his hungry gaze falling to those slightly parted lips. "You're impressing the hell outta me, Babes."

"Same goes."

The dance suddenly became a challenge of know-how, both vying for the lead, though Lydia often lost out, the reluctant partner to be tamed. Tamed…right…like he'd ever be able to tame her. He didn't want her tame though. He wanted her wild. He wanted to be over her again, staring into her eyes and _knowing_ she was awake as he did things to her that would leave her questioning her own sanity. With every slide of her hands over his arms and shoulders, every brush of her thigh over his, every teasing tickle of her foot against his calf…he wanted more and more to rip that sad excuse for a dress off of her and give them what he was convinced they both craved.

"Fuck the contract, Lyds," he ground out, brutally pulling her against him once more. "Think of all the wild, kinky-as-hell shit we could be doin' right now if you just ripped the damn thing up."

She went still, her wide eyes staring into his as she shook her head. Her movements may have said no…but those eyes that hid nothing…showed him the excitement and blatant desire.

"Beej…I can't. I…I have to-." She pulled back, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to catch her breath. "I have to get this stuff taken care of."

_And just like that,_ he thought scornfully.

The music stopped, the dress vanished and she was back in the jeans and sweatshirt, taking the box she'd been packing in her arms before heading towards the stairs.

Beetlejuice blew out a sigh of frustration and glared after her. With a snap of his fingers the blinds re-opened and he was back in his usual stripped attire.

"Well fuck," he muttered, lifting his nearly gone cigarette to his lips and taking a deep drag. "She's makin' this a hell of a lot harder than I thought it would be."

* * *

A/N: Yes…I know…BJ and the Tango…kinda fangirl-ish. But I figured something light and fun before things get seriously dark was mandatory. Hope it was believable enough. OH! And the song that inspired the dance and Beetlejuice to call Lydia "Lola" is "Whatever Lola Wants" by the Gotan Project.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N :** First and foremost…Listen2Juno…this is _not_ intentional. And you will get your smut soon. I'm just having such a trail with it that I gave up after week of continually working on it and decided to post a bit so no one thought I had abandoned this fic. Trust me, I'm far from abandoning it. I can't remember the last time I put so much work into a fic…which you'll see in this chapter. I did a lot of research to make sure my dates add up and things make sense sooo…thank you Google. You rock! And thank you Mikell for looking over the history of this and giving me an impromptu beta.

The rest of you vwvanloer, inulover, Mamma Lici, badkidoh and Rogue…thanks for the reviews guys! You keep me going on this and amped up to keep giving you more! Love to all!

Disclaimer: I own nothing of BJ and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

**Deal Breaker**

After what seemed like hours of doing nothing but throwing shit in boxes and hauling them up to the attic when, in his opinion, half the crap really belonged in the garbage anyway, Beetlejuice and Lydia were finally done taking everything that held a trace of Adam and Barbara out of the room.

"Well…that really emptied the place out."

Beside him, leaning against the archway, Lydia smiled sadly. They'd finished cleaning out the rooms just as the sun had started to sink and now the dark shadows crept over the bare floor and worn couch, as if searching for a trace of what had once been there.

"Now I really _am_ out of things to do," she murmured quietly, casting her gaze to the floor and intentionally hiding her face behind the curtain of her thick hair.

Sympathy slithered through him and he grimaced, rubbing at his chest as if the simple movement would ease away the uncomfortable feeling. When it didn't he sighed and gave into it, reaching over and gently tugging on her hand to gain her attention.

Those luminous eyes lifted to his, a silent plea in their depths. In that moment, he would give her anything she could possibly ask for. If it meant he could hold her, if it meant he could drown in the intoxicating aroma of honey and brandy that seemed to be her signature scent…if it would erase that lonely, pained look on her gorgeous face…he would give her anything. And for once, he didn't give a shit how emotionally sappy it seemed.

"Come on," he said, tugging gently and spinning her away from the room with a dramatic flair that eased the sadness of her smile. "I think I remember some hot babe promising me pizza and beer." He slung an arm around her shoulders and although she jumped a little, the idea must not have been that appalling because not even a second later she was sagging against him, her head falling to his shoulder.

"I thought food didn't 'do much for you'," she muttered, making quotation marks in the air with her fingers and grinning up at him.

He shrugged. "I like the pretense. Besides, ain't it some time-honored tradition to eat pizza and get shitfaced after moving a bunch of boxes or some crap like that?"

"I think I've heard something along those lines once or twice. Want me to ask if they can scare up a few beetles to put on yours?"

"Now you're speakin' my language, Babes."

After the pizza was ordered and there was nothing left to do but wait for it, he put as much effort as he could stomach into making polite conversation, digging for little tidbits of the life of a woman he once thought he knew. Luckily for him, she provided enough of the information on her own, keeping a constant flow of nearly one-sided conversation in an attempt to shrug off the lingering sentiment that had plagued her throughout the day. She kept it up through pizza, opting for wine instead of beer and relaxing enough to agree to an old-age horror flick. Which is where they found themselves now – two somewhat friends if you could call it that – sitting in the darkness of a poorly decorated living room with nothing but the flickering glow from the hearth skipping weakly over them and watching The Shinning on an impressive flat screen.

"See now _this…_is the way you need to be enjoyin' shit like this," Beetlejuice said, saluting the television with his beer. "Chuckie's pick?"

"No," Lydia cast him a sidelong smile and shifted her weight, settling closer to him. "This was actually Delia's."

"What? No way! You're tellin' me Miss. Stick-up-her ass picked out a big screen that clashes with her horrible taste in décor? I don't believe it."

Lydia laughed softly, relaxing even further. He could feel the tension drain slowly away from her. It might have been the wine but he didn't mind thinking it had something to do with her being comfortable around him. A little closer and maybe he'd test the waters a bit, put an arm around her shoulders, let himself enjoy the simplicity of having a warm, willing body beside him – a warm body drenched in the scent of something intoxicating and far too arousing.

"I think dad kind of picked a time when she'd be in some drug-induced state of mind, then sprung the idea and she just went with it. By the time it was paid for and in the house, there wasn't much she could do."

"What's up with Del's and all those pills anyway? I get that she's an addict but…even I'm not stupid enough to think that mixin' all those things up with a cocktail is the best freakin' idea."

Lydia lifted her shoulders in a non-committal shrug, then raised her glass to her lips and held it there for a moment, her gaze far off and reflective. "Guess that's just the way she is," she muttered, taking a long sip.

"And your pop's is alright with that? The guy ain't much to look at, no offense…but he aint so bad that he'd have to be scrapin' the bottom of the pill poppin' lunatic barrel, if ya know what I mean."

A bitter laugh escaped her. "Dad's a caretaker, if you weren't able to figure that out. Not that he's all that great at it but that's kind of his thing. Find some attractive woman with a spark of insanity and an unstoppable addiction and he's in love. Delia's a bitch…but she didn't take first place."

There was a darkness in her tone that hinted ever-so-slightly of that fourteen-year-old emotional wreck. "Your mom was the reigning champ then?" he ventured cautiously.

A nod, another deep sip from a nearly empty glass. When she brought it away from her mouth, he reached over and gently flicked the rim. Instantly, the glass was refilled.

"Mom…had more than just some addiction to pills. She had an addiction to booze, to heroine, to other men who had booze and heroine. It wasn't like that at first but…" she paused to take a deep breath, close her eyes and compose herself before continuing. "At first it was just the booze. Dad was working with the city at the time and checking out a block of old buildings they were planning to restore and turn into a shelter for abused and abandoned teens. He was on his way out of the buildings one night after having met with a city inspector to check the stability of the place when he found her, puking into a gutter." She shook her head, shame clearly written on her face. "Got her into AA, and although dad says they fell in love, I have a feeling she was more in love with his money and protective nature. They were never married but started planning when she got pregnant with me. Then I was born and things kind of changed. I came first in my dad's eyes. His little Pumpkin. Mom didn't like that. She got jealous, she turned hateful…and then she started the hardcore stuff. Maybe she wanted the attention back, maybe she wanted out…I really could care less. When it became obvious that there wasn't a damn thing he could do for her, when he finally caught on to what she was doing with other men and when her addiction started making her violent, he filed for full custody. Got the papers signed and she took off."

The sullen teen was suddenly justified in her depression. Beetlejuice stared at her, unnerved by not only the story, but the detached nature with which she told it. Two mother figures…and she didn't seem to care one iota for either. "Guess you made your peace with it, huh?"

"Didn't have much of a choice. Dad did his best raising me and his best was good enough to make up for the lack of a mother. When Delia came along I was old enough to see how lonely my dad was and although I didn't like her much, I sucked it up for him. She had her issues. So did he. But he was happy."

"Issues? The woman's addicted to valium and shitty art. Her issues have issues."

It was an idiotic thing to say and he knew it, but she was starting to tense again and he liked her calm. The words worked and she laughed, nudging him with her shoulder. "Yes…her issues have issues. So, what about you, Beej?" She shifted around to face him, tucking her leg under her. Her knee was pressed to his hip and he could feel the warmth from her body sweep over him, even through the threadbare cloth of his pants.

"What about me?" He rolled his head on his shoulder, giving her a bland look before taking a sip of his drink.

She seemed to stall, almost as if she were weighing the choice to ask her next question or not. Whatever it was, it was making her nervous as hell. That tension was starting to come back with company in tow. She lifted her glass to her lips and drained it of every drop. He watched her throat work as she swallowed, imagined what it would be like to run his tongue over the pale expanse of flesh, to feel her tremble beneath his hands. He'd long since given up trying to hate her. Helping her move Adam and Barb's things, making unnatural attempts to get to know her better, sitting there watching some psychological thriller and drinking like college dorm buddies…it was relatively pointless to hate her after all of that. Now…it seemed almost natural to just want her. It was simple, it was basic. It was a hell of a lot easier than arguing with himself all day. Getting her to go with it though, to forget about the shit contract…that might take some work.

"How did you die?"

And suddenly…every lusty, carnivorous thought vanished. Left in its place was a cold, empty void. He looked away, down at his drink, anywhere but at her.

"Just happened," he muttered, lifting his glass to his lips and swallowing deeply. He felt pain. And when the dead felt pain…it hurt in ways a breather could never comprehend. Pain to a breather – blinding, consuming pain – it wasn't something the human body could tolerate. A normal human body would shut down to keep it out. When you were dead though…there was no way to stop it. Your body couldn't just stop functioning. It already had. So the pain just kept going, whether you could handle it or not.

"Just happened?" she prompted softly.

"Yeah…."

_The sound of dry retching filled the small room. She was vomiting…again. Or trying to. There would be nothing left in her to come up at this point. And that very thought sent a terrifying chill straight to his heart. He watched her small body convulse as she leaned over the chamber pot, her frail fingers grasping the aged porcelain. There was nothing he could do for her. He'd tried, countless times. When she had started talking to him, referring to him as the priest from her childhood…he'd known there would never be a single thing he could do to help her. Not her…not their unborn child. She was in fate's hands and the cruel specter held his heart as well. Her life…his heart….both in the palm of its hand…waiting to destroy both in one, sudden, vicious moment. He almost wished it would be quick. He wished fate would take him as well but he remained untouched by the blackness consuming the small village. _

_Hot tears trailed over his face as he bent his head, folded his hands and prayed feverishly. Words spilled from his lips, soft and desperate. He wanted to be heard…he _needed_ to be heard. He doubted he would be. _

_"Joseph-."_

_He looked up over the steeple of his fingers. She was watching him, sprawled over bed with one arm outstretched. Her brown eyes were bright and unfocused. And Joseph…was not his name. _

_"Joseph…father has returned, has he not? You should go to the fields and see if he is in need of help."_

_"He has as much help as he needs, dear sister," he found it in him to mutter. Was there a point to arguing with her over his true name? Over who he was? In her mind…she was no longer married. She did not carry a child. She knew nothing more than whom she was and the world that now existed inside her delirious mind. "Father will be home shortly."_

_She smiled, a blinding smile that still had the power to effortlessly steal his breath. "Perhaps we will tell us a story of his travels before bed?"_

_"Perhaps," he said, emotion thickening his voice. _

_"That would be wonderful." She sighed and her eyes slid closed, the lids so very pale now that he could see make out the deep brown color through them. "Do you not think so, Joseph?"_

_"Yes." He moved to the bed and took her hand, clasping it between his. He stared down at the bony fingers laying limp in his grasp. He could see the veins, see the blood pulsing weakly through them. It wouldn't be long now. He bent his head to her hand, his heart twisting and tears spilling furiously, splattering over her paper-thin flesh. "Wonderful…" he whispered. _

Lydia was watching him now, her full lips parted in stunned horror. "You had a wife?" she whispered. There was no offense, no jealousy. He almost wished there was. The emotions on her face shifted – pity, curiosity, sadness – they were all emotions he hated. They were weakness. And weakness was just another thing that was pointless as far as he was concerned. He reminded himself of this as he went on. Though why he went on, he couldn't quite understand.

"Yeah…had."

"The plague-?"

"The plague," he repeated, his voice cold and detached in comparison to her compassion filled whisper.

_"Soup's cold," he muttered, his slurred voice in complete accordance with the slurred reality inhabiting his mind. The fire snapped in the hearth, a cast iron pot hanging uselessly above it. Useless…because there was nothing within. _

_"That should matter not one bit to you though, right my dear?" He stood awkwardly, pitching to the right and landing heavily against the wall. With a harsh laugh, he lifted the bottle clasped in his hand and drank deeply from its contents, savoring the painful scorch of strong liquor sliding over his raw throat. "Soup's soup and all that. Even if it was scalding hot, would it make a damn bit of difference?"_

_Shoving away from the wall, he stumbled drunkenly to the bed. She lay there, still as the day she had died. The days had blurred together, the weeks passed without notice. When he did start to notice the time that had passed, he simply found another bottle and drown out reality. He dulled the pain, his last conscious thought always the same – Please…please take me away from this. This time…let me die._

_"Awaken fair maid," he shouted, slinging the bottle in a high arch, the contents splashing over the soiled bedspread. "Awaken for your Prince!"_

_He fell to his knees beside her and held the bottle to her rotting lips. The liquor splashed over her sunken face. _

_"Come…enjoy that which I have provided for you. It may not be the King's stock…but believe me, darling – it is fit for the King." _

_When she didn't answer, he frowned. "What is this? My wares are not good enough for you? Well, that is simply unacceptable! If my drink is not good enough for you…what must you think of our humble home? What must you think of your humble husband?" _

_In some sane part of his mind, he knew that he could no longer continue on like this. He could not stay in this home with a rotting corpse, listening to the voices that followed him, declared him in hushed whispers a "Plague Spreader." He could not stay in this place while everyone around him died. He could not carelessly tempt the oblivion of death the way he was – swinging violently back and forth between bleak depression and bouts of insane, hallucination, remaining in a constant state of drunkenness. The rational part tried to reason, though its fight against the inebriated, delusional man was a losing one. _

_It made one last effort at that very moment which resulted in forcing the man from the bed. It brought him to the fireplace….to the simple wooden furniture that gave beneath his abusive touch, splintering roughly and clattering in the hearth where the dying fire feasted upon it. Higher and higher the flames rose. He stared at it, his pained gaze one of defeat. The liquor would not kill him…the plague would not kill him….there was no release from this torment, no relief from the constant, gripping heart ache. _

_"She cannot rot here," he muttered. "She deserves better." _

_He tilted the bottle once more to his lips. Then, glaring into the flames now licking at the walls, at the smoldering kindling scattered over the floor, he wiped the filthy sleeve of his shirt over his mouth, drew his arm back and threw the bottle into the flames. _

_It exploded against the wall, shattered glass spilling over the inferno and doing nothing to calm it. He moved as quickly as his addled mind would allow then, throwing anything that would catch fire against the heated stones. When he was finished, a pile of clothing, bed clothes, furniture – it all lay over the floor, flames moving over it like a torturous, hungry caress. And he stood there watching…waiting for the end – no longer caring whether or not it was painful. All he knew was pain. It was fitting that the end would be filled with nothing but. _

"Course, I wasn't lucky. Woulda rather passed out and just burned. Can't have it be that simple though, now can we," Beetlejuice mused sardonically.

Lydia was still beside him. She'd shifted, now facing the low glow of the banked fire, her face hidden by the fall of her raven tresses. One knee was drawn up, the foot of the other tucked between her thigh and heel. She lowered her forehead to her knee, wrapping her arm around her leg.

"You didn't die in a fire….so how?" she asked, though he got the distinct impression she hadn't wanted to. The words had been forced, her tone distant and injured.

How indeed? The simple thought of the how was enough to make him see red, to feed the constant violence stirring deep within him.

"The Black Plague wasn't the only thing killing people around that time. Self-righteous fucks took matters into their own hands and did their fair share of homicidal shit, too."

_The man beside him trembled violently, his accented voice indiscernible through the sobbing. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him to be silent but at the same time…he could not blame him. Standing in the growing darkness, soaked and chilled to the bone by the freezing drizzle pouring mercilessly down on them, surrounded by women and two other men all either praying or sobbing, facing a secular court who held the fate of their lives in their unsympathetic hands…no, he could not blame the man for being afraid. _

_His gaze moved past the man, over the panicked crowd, and stopped on one woman. She stood apart from the flock, her shoulders back, her unwavering gaze fixed on the man who would judge them. She, like him, did not know fear. She stood defiant, daring them to judge her. And he admired her for that. _

_"Do you not have an answer for us, then?"_

_He turned slowly to the voice that addressed him, his eyes flashing with ill concealed hostility. A Bishop stood before him, hawk-like noise lifted, dull brown eyes watching him. The Bishop was tall and gaunt. For one brief moment, he entertained the thought that the man may have been death himself. Had it not been for the starched collar, seemingly holding the man's head up, he just might have been. _

_He glanced once more to the woman who now watched him, grimacing when the thick ropes binding his wrists together bit into his flesh. The woman may have valued her life but unlike her, he did not. His life was no more and as far as he was concerned, he had ceased to exist when his wife had slipped away, taking with her their child and any hope he'd so desperately clung to. What was left was a shell of a man who feared death, yet welcomed it as well. He had nothing left here – no reason to care, no reason to fight. And that is why he remained silent. Let them judge him, let them decide that they had a right to condemn him to the abyss. The only thing that he could force himself to care about…was the thought of coming back for them – and making every one of them pay…slowly…painfully. For his suffering, for her suffering…for the fact that they considered themselves so far above everyone else, spouting their hypocrisy on the blackness of witchcraft. He would find a way…and he would come back for them. _

_"Your silence speaks for you sir. We, however, are a fair court. If you will not attest to your innocence, we shall test it for you." _

_The Bishop lifted his frail hand and beckoned to a small group of followers behind him with the twitch of one long finger. The men surged forward, bringing with them a large stone tied to a length of rope. They neared him and, as if he were the plague himself, the crowd moved away from. He would face death alone, carried by hands that did not know him, nor care for what his life had been. _

_He was escorted to the center of a bridge that overlooked the dark, churning river._

_"The accused," started the Bishop, his strong, pious voice carrying over the hushed crowd, "Will not speak for himself. His innocence remains undecided and therefore will be tested! If the accused floats, he shall be burned at the stake for the offense of witchcraft!"_

_He would not float. He knew this. He would sink…and he would drown. Icy water would fill his lungs and the world would slip slowly away. Through the haze of hatred, he could feel the unfamiliar fear closed around his heart. _

_Several men fell back, leaving four to tie his ankles to the boulder. With that task done, they hoisted the stone, grunting under its weight. He felt a hand press impatiently against his back, pushing him forward. _

"_This would be a good time to start praying, witch," a voice hissed hatefully in his ear. _

_He was far past prayer though. It would not save him. And when the time came…it would not save them. _

"They…_drown_ you?"

"Yup."

Lydia shook her head; her wide eyes filled with a mixture of horror and profound sadness. "Beej…I'm so…I'm so sorry. That's…I don't know." Her voice fell to a bare whisper. "Awful seems like an understatement."

"That was life," he muttered harshly. "That's just how things happened back then. Ain't no point in feelin' bad about it. Not like we were the only ones who went through that shit, ya know?"

"I just…I can't imagine how-."

"Then don't," he snapped, slamming his empty glass down on the coffee table and standing. He didn't want to be near her right now. He didn't want to feel the pity. He didn't want to remember how much of a nightmare his living life had been. When he remembered, he could still feel the pain…

"Don't try to think about what it was like. No fuckin' point in that. I've had time. Shit…I've had more than enough time to get over it. Got my revenge on every single one of those pathetic pieces of shit and moved on."

She was staring at him, her eyes glassed over with tears, and he could feel her looking past his detached façade. It gave him a squirming feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn't like it one bit. "Don't feel sorry for me," he warned in a cold, threatening voice.

It had no affect on her. She stood, setting her glass of wine aside. She faced him unafraid, reminding him of the woman in the crowd. "I won't feel sorry for you," she murmured. "I will feel remorse though. What happened to you…losing your wife, losing your child, condemned by people who were just afraid of every damn thing going on back then…it wasn't fair. That's a horrible way to die and it shouldn't have happened."

"Well, it did," he gritted out between his clenched teeth. "Happened over 600 years ago babe. You wanna cry, go right the fuck ahead. Ain't gonna change a damn thing. All it's gonna do is show me what a weak little breather you really are."

The atmosphere shifted dramatically. One moment her tearful gaze was sympathetic. Now…it was hard…and furious.

"Weak?"

"Yeah, that's right," he challenged. "Weak. That's all human emotions are. Nothin' but disgusting weakness."

She laughed harshly, lifting a hand to brush at the one tear that had managed to escape and trail slowly over her cheek. "That's rich. You know, you're the last person who can really sit here and preach about weakness to me. After all, I'm not the one who got all panicked over a kiss and nearly begged me to send you back."

He stilled, shock washing over him. "What?"

Lydia's eyes went wide and she took a hasty step back, the hand that had brushed away the tear now planted firmly over her mouth. She shook her head, jerking it back and forth. But no amount of denial could take back what she had carelessly admitted to. He advanced on her, feeling particularly bloodthirsty. "What did you just say?"

"Nothing," she choked, her feet frantically working to keep her away from him. Her back hit the wall of the living room and she gasped, the sound strangled off by a startled scream when he closed the distance between them, took her wrists roughly in his hands and pinned them to the wall above her head.

"That wasn't nothin', Babes," he murmured, grinning crazily. "You were awake." The words, when said, sparked a certainty that was impossible to ignore. "You were awake. And that…my _darling_ Lydia…was a deal breaker."

A/N: Yup, that's how I see his past. Always thought he looked like a victim to drowning. When this particular past was applied to his character…his animosity towards people and his crude, uncaring nature towards women just seemed to make sense.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** This…was a full freakin week in the making. I don't expect an award or anything. I'm just saying…I've never put that much effort into smut! I'm actually so glad to be done with it and that's not usually how I feel! Lol, might never write it again after how this dragged out. Anywho…here it is! One chapter…of pretty much nothing but smut. Ya know I love it! Lol. Enjoy! Thanks to Mikell for being my beta on this one and to Kitty, Christy and Mel for looking it over and letting me know that I wasn't getting too carried away. Love you all! Also I would like to thank the Sucker Punch soundtrack for giving me the "juice" I needed to pull this off.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make not profit from the writing of this fic.

**Ink**

Lydia whimpered, closing her eyes tightly and struggling against Beetlejuice's hold.

He lowered his head, stopping just shy of her neck and inhaling her scent. Not a trace of fear – only wine and smooth honey. So what was her deal?

"What are ya gonna do, Deetz? Stop me?"

She went limp, hanging her head and breathing heavily. It was hard not to be distracted by the way the fabric of her shirt strained over her full breasts with every intake. He wanted nothing more than to bury his head in the warmth of her skin, to taste how _alive_ she was. Then she was lifting her head, her eyelids slowly drifting open. Something blazed in the depths of her eyes…something that had nothing to do with anger.

"No," she finally said – softly, precisely.

_Fuck!_ His grasp around her wrists slackened as his confidence wavered. "You're playin' with a whole mess of fire, Lyds. Sure you want to do that?"

For a moment, she said nothing, and something uncomfortable spiked its way over his spine at the thought that she might back out. Then she smiled, a slow, sexy quirk of the lips. "So in over six hundred years, that's the best line you can come up with? I'm playing with fire?" She leaned into him and he caught the look of pure, unadulterated longing that she was no longer attempting to hide. The struggle to fight him and everything she felt for him was over. Her low voice and the feel of her warm breath over his lips stirred those foreign emotions into a frantic whirl. "You don't scare me."

"Well see about that," he growled.

And like an aged tree falling victim to the onslaught of lightning, he snapped.

He pulled her hands down and behind her back, forcing her chest tightly against him. The gasp that slipped past her full lips was silenced seconds later when his mouth came down on hers, slanting over the tender flesh with not a care for bruising it. Greedily, she opened for him, her tongue dancing out to meet his, to willingly allow him to assault her in any way he chose. She was surrendering, yet at the same time, she was demanding he do the same. Her movements were bold, sensual and entirely reckless, giving him no other choice than to cave and let the raging hormones and emotion take over. It was wildly out of control and they hadn't even gotten to the good stuff yet.

Her hips arched against his and she squirmed as she bit down on his bottom lip viciously. Jerking away from him, panting for breath, she demanded in a harsh whisper, "Let go of my hands."

The second he did, they were fisted in his hair and that burning mouth was on his again. Groaning, his body shuddering with the sheer satisfaction of feeling such a heady mixture pleasure, pain and longing, he slid his hands down the backs of her thighs and hooked them behind her knees, jerking her legs up and around his waist.

She locked them around him, crying out when he shoved her back against the wall with far more force than necessary. Without her lips to divert him, he lowered his head and ran his teeth over the pale column of her neck. His hands worked feverishly at the sweatshirt that she wore, yanking it up over her head and tossing it aside.

Pulling back, his hungry gaze wandered over the red lace hugging the full curve of her breasts. "Damn it…you're a piece of work, Lyds. Ya know that?"

"I hope you mean that as a compliment," she purred, arching against his fingertips when they brushed the swell of her right breast.

He grinned wickedly, taking the full weight in his hand and massaging it with intentional roughness, delighting in the way her head fell back and a breathless moan slid past her swollen lips. "The best kind babe," he returned before lowering his head and taking one lace clad nipple into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth and tongue just so that he could hear that soft sound of pleasure mingling with pain once more. Her hands were still twined through his hair, holding him to her, slackening only enough to let him move to the other and lavish the same affection on the over-sensitive flesh.

Still feasting on her delicious skin, he traced his fingers over the delicate ribcage and flat, quivering stomach before sliding them low around her. Pulling her closer still, his nails digging mercilessly into her tender flesh, he ground his hips against her, his low groan mingling with her throaty, wanton cry.

He moved once more to her neck, leaving a trail of wet, openmouthed kisses over it before nipping none-too-gently at the sweet smelling curve of her jaw. "We do this…and you're _mine_," he growled possessively.

Her arms circled his neck, her lips playing over his ear, her throaty whisper coaxing a hot shiver to travel the length of his spine. "When haven't I been?"

This time he did sink his teeth in, nearly breaking the flesh, letting hot pleasure spiral heedlessly through him at the sound of her enraptured shriek. Her hands were suddenly grasping at his shirt, yanking impatiently at the fabric and tearing the buttons free. Using the wall and pressing her firmly against it to support her weight, he dropped his arms and helped her, sliding both shirt and jacket off and throwing them aside. With the clothing no longer in her way, she splayed her hands over his chest, eagerly exploring the chilled skin, drawing a hiss of startled indulgence from him. She was so different from any he'd been with before – steaming erotica scorching over his cold, dead body and reminding him of what it was like to _feel. _

She was also greedy…extremely greedy.

Her nimble fingers quickly traveled lower and started to tug impatiently at his belt. He drew back, chuckling at her sound of annoyed frustration. "Feelin' a bit anxious?"

She bumped her nose against his. Her deep brown eyes glowed in the darkness, reflecting the flames smoldering in the black marble hearth. "More than a bit."

"Why's that?"

"Got a taste." Her lips brushed his. "Want some more. Pretty basic stuff really. You should probably just shut up and give it to me."

He hummed softly and captured those teasing lips in a brief, hungry kiss. "No problem there, Babes."

He swept an arm under her bottom and moved to the couch, eager to touch every single, uncovered inch of her because he could still remember how fucking _incredible_ it felt to have her slick, wet heat clenched around his fingers, he could remember how she responded to his touch. Knowing was making it pure torture to crawl along at the pace they were going. But everything about her and the way she made him feel alive made him want it to last.

With nowhere else to go she landed in his lap when he sat down, straddling his waist and moving her hips suggestively against his. He hissed through clenched teeth, his head falling back and his resolve nearly shattering.

_Can't have that…_

He slid his hands up her thighs, lifted his head and opened his eyes, immediately seeing the one thing he'd completely forgotten about – that tattoo. A tattoo that wasn't doing a damn thing to stop him.

"What _is_ this?" he muttered, running his finger hesitantly over the inked design. He half expected it to burn him like a crucifix would burn a vampire. Stupid…it hadn't done a damn thing to him yet. Then again…he'd been pretty preoccupied.

"You don't recognize it?"

"Yeah. I recognize it." He shot her a slight scowl. "It's a fuckin' sandworm."

Lydia smiled down at him patiently, giving a little shake of her head. "Look again Beej."

He did and his throat immediately constricted. If he had breath in his lungs, dragging it in would be nearly impossible. It wasn't a sandworm…it was a snake – a snake that he'd once manifested into for the sake of scaring the shit out of her family and voicing his somewhat joking intentions to Lydia's scared-as-hell dad. Seeing it and understanding what she'd been looking to accomplish by incorporating his serpentine self into a symbol of protection, the only thing he could manage to respond with was a strangled, "why?"

"Freshman year sucked," she muttered, lifting those delicate shoulders. "People weren't nice and I was still that miserable, idealistic girl with a twisted obsession she thought would protect her from…everything…" her voice trailed off and she looked away, shame and bitter hostility pulling at her features.

"Lyds…"

Beetlejuice gritted his teeth and quickly shifted gears unwilling to slip into some sappy bullshit right now, even if knowing she'd indirectly used him to protect her from others provoked more than just a few foreign emotions.

"How long ya had a thing for me?"

She was smart this one, catching the shift in conversation and giving him a knowing smile. "Ever since the night I watched you get eaten by a sandworm."

"You're a sick, twisted bitch, Babes."

She laughed and leaned down, her scent wrapping around him as her arms did. "I'm sitting here, straddling a dead guy that I have every intention of sleeping with sometime tonight. Possibly more than once. You're just figuring that out now?"

He released a dark cackle and flipped her around, laying her out on the couch and making quick work of her remaining clothing with nothing more than a simple snap of the fingers.

"Convenient," she muttered, a deep flush rising delectably to her cheeks.

"Damn," he returned, taking a moment to worship her. Her alabaster skin glowed in the growing darkness. Her hands lay on her stomach, slightly fisted, the deep purple splashed over her nails contrasting with the pale background. She watched him through heavily lidded eyes, her quick, excited breaths slipping past her parted lips. And her body…she could _own_ a runway for Victoria's Secret with a body like that.

"You know," he drawled, leaning over her and wrapping a hand loosely around her neck. "I used to dream up different ways to kill you."

Her breath caught, her eyes winded, filling with a mixture of fear and excitement and anticipation drummed mercilessly within him.

"Now-." He released her, dragging one nail down through the valley of her breasts, over her frantically beating heart, over her flat stomach and lower still, marveling at the way she arched to remain connected to his touch. Her eyes were screwed tightly shut now, her teeth worrying her bottom lip in a way that made his skin prickle and his insides twist deliciously. "I'm just dreaming up all these fun ways to make you scream."

And he did just that, lowering his head to her beckoning heat, dragging his teeth over the slick folds and growling deep in his throat as arousal exploded on his tongue. And he _could_ taste her….damn he could taste her! He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually been able to taste something, especially something so intoxicating.

Her hips jerked. He felt the bite of her nails in his shoulder as her enraptured cry filled his head. The combination sliced through the last thread of control and any remaining scrap of consideration was forgotten. It was a drugging sense of freedom, a dangerous slip into a realm where pain and pleasure warred with one another in an endless battle for dominance. Set loose from restraint, he feasted on her, ravenously, every whimper, every plea driving him on.

Lydia was near-violent in her reaction to his torment, grabbing at him yet trying to move away at the same time, wrapping her legs around his head, her screams reverberating off of the bare walls in the cavernous room. She clawed, scoured his shoulders and back. He couldn't stop, he couldn't relent even in the slightest to offer her reprieve from his ministrations. She was a drug, and he was helpless to do anything but savor it like the addict he was.

"Beetlejuice…"

His name, trembling from her lips in a thin, desperate plea was all it took to bring him back though it wasn't long before he lost himself once more. He regretfully moved away from her, intent on making sure that name never left her lips again. She was just as hell-bent with her intentions, her hands falling to his belt and yanking impatiently, then one slipping under the waistband and sliding in one long, smooth caress over his length.

Beetlejuice gasped, dropping his head to her shoulder. Though he didn't require air, he was breathing…heavily, trying to mentally regain the control he'd had only moments ago. It was no use. She had him now, and damn her mortal soul…she knew it.

"Ghost with the most suddenly at the mercy of a human," she murmured teasingly, her tongue darting out to delicately trace the rim of his ear. Her grip tightened around him as she slid her hand in slow, torturous movements. "How does it feel?"

He mumbled…something. Didn't he? Whatever it was, it was entirely incoherent, mingling with Lydia's soft, sultry laugh. The tip of her tongue brushed his lower lip, coaxing him into a deep, wild kiss – the catalyst to the inevitable. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her hand away. A simple thought to divulge himself of all clothing and without the slightest hint of indecision; he entered her in one harsh, unforgiving thrust, his teeth sinking into her shoulder as her nails cut ruthlessly into his.

Her mouth still moving against his, Lydia locked her legs around him. Heat scorched every part of him that touched, seeping into through his chilled skin, making his shiver at the stark contrast between the two sensations.

There was a fluid, age-old grace to the rhythm of their movements – one born not of experience, but out of the mutual recognition that in each other, they had found someone meant to fill the void, to allow them to feel on a level they'd both craved for longer than either of them would readily admit.

Beetlejuice ran a nail over the sharp line of Lydia's cheekbone, then swept his hand through her hair, curling it around the back of her head as his mouth moved hungrily over hers, devouring every gasp, every moan.

Her first orgasm struck her seemingly out of nowhere, rocking her body with a powerful shudder, stealing her voice. He didn't wait for it to subside, mindless in his need for his own release. He drove into her harder, forcing her to join him. At some point they toppled from the couch to the floor, neither of them noticing, too far gone to their own insatiable need to be concerned with location.

"Beej," Lydia panted, her hair now clinging to her sweat slickened face, her cheeks so flushed with pleasure that they were nearly red. Hands reached up, cupped his face, dark eyes pleaded with him, bright and feverish. "Beej…come with me…"

The whispered demand alone nearly had the power to break him entirely. He pulled her hands over her head, pinning them to the floor beneath her, staring down at the goddess who now owned his soul and quite possibly his heart.

He drew back, trembling, feeling that telltale tightening in the pit of his stomach, that crawling, heady anticipation. "Lyds…"

He drove into her once more – hard…demanding - and suddenly, he knew fulfillment unlike anything he had ever experienced before. Her inner muscles clenched around him. A grow, low and animalistic, slid past his lips. Lydia sobbed, clinging to him, shuddering violently, her body wracked mercilessly, torn apart by the power of her release. His own was an unassailable, psychopathic bitch, forcing humanity upon him. He rolled to his side, shaking and pulling Lydia with him, cradling her in his arms like the precious being she was. At least to him she was. And he knew that now. He _knew_ that he would never be able to feel hatred for her, to want to do her harm. He knew…what he couldn't confess out loud. Not right now.

He waited for her breathing to slow, for the post-orgasmic shudders to cease, then pressed a kiss to her forehead, closing his eyes and enjoying the pleasure of such a simplistic action.

"Ghost with the most," she sighed. "I'll never doubt you again."

"Do it…" he pulled back to grin down at her. "And I'll just have to keep proving you wrong."

She laughed and snuggled further into his arms, sliding a leg between his and settling against him as if she'd always been meant to be right there. Maybe she had been. Even if she hadn't, he was going to continue on thinking that she had simply because he wanted to.

* * *

Sometime after 2 a.m. Lydia woke to find herself lying in her bed, a cold arm wrapped protectively around her. She smiled and rolled her shoulders, pressing against the specter dozing beside her. So, ghosts did sleep. She hadn't every thought they could. Then again, after every act of indiscretion they'd exhausted themselves with over the past few hours, it wasn't surprising. She still felt drugged and pleasantly sore, her muscles weakly protesting even the smallest movement. She still couldn't believe that they'd become lovers, even if it was something she had secretly wanted for the better part of her adult life. And what a lover her was. She had been and was still highly fascinated by his sexual prowess. He was attentive, he was gentle (when he wanted to be) and though there were several marks coloring her fair skin that at one point he would have cared less about putting there, he was apologetic. It was unexpected. _He _was unexpected…everything about him…from his nature as a lover to…

She swallowed hard, the smile falling from her face as his horrifying past crept back from the recesses of her mind and effectively severed any post-colloidal euphoria. Casting a look back at Beetlejuice to see if he was still sleeping, she moved carefully out from under his room and slid out of bed. She took a cigarette from the nightstand as she stood, turning to watch him as she lit it. He slept on, undisturbed, frighteningly still. She was half tempted to shake him and see if he would wake up.

Instead, she turned and padded to the French Doors, staring out at the snow covered hills and shadowed forest. The moon cast its glow over the glittering stillness, throwing it into a brilliant shade of white-blue that glistened. It was untouched and beautiful, yet even with her artist's eye, she could not find it in her to appreciate the solitude of an quite winter night. All she could do was wonder if it had been winter when he died, if the icy water had crept over him and made death only slightly more merciful than it may have been had the water been warmed by the summer rays of the sun.

Her vision blurred and she dropped her head, giving into the need to mourn for his past.

A sudden touch of cold along her back let her know she was no longer the only one awake. His strong arms came around her and she smiled sadly, leaning back against him, making a pitiable attempt to dash the tears from her face with the back of her hand. "I'm going to have to keep the furnace at eighty if we're going to keep this up."

"You're damn right we're going to," he said, chuckling. "I could just spend every waking moment screwing your brains out to the point that you'd forget anything non-me related."

Lydia laughed softly and turned her head, bumping his chin with it.

"What are you doin' up, Babes?"

The truth was something she couldn't give voice to. She shrugged instead, giving an evasive, "just thinking."

He was silent for a moment before his gruff voice, so much softer than she even thought it could be, swept over her. "Thought I told you not to feel all sad for me."

Hot tears pricked persistently at her lids and she pulled her lower lip between her teeth, biting down on it, inviting physical pain to wash away the emotional ache that haunted her. When that didn't help, she spun slowly in his arms and looked up at him, hiding nothing from him – not the sorrow, not the tears….nothing.

"Someone has to," she whispered.

His gaze searched hers. "Why?"

With a sigh, she quickly scrubbed the lingering tears from her cheeks, then gave him a pained, helpless look. "Because, against my better judgment…I love you."

She'd never thought the words, never even entertained the idea of loving the sadistic poltergeist. And yet, when they were out…they felt undeniably right. A calm peace washed over her and she relaxed in his embrace, smiling.

He, on the other hand, was not. He seemed to be struggling. Then finally, he glared down at her and huffed softly. "Love you too, Lyds. Even though it makes me sick to my stomach. Emotional shit…ya know I hate it."

Lydia laughed, sliding her arms around him and resting her head on his chest. It may have not been eloquent or the over-romantic ideals spouted in every romance novel she'd ever been unfortunate enough to read in a state of boredom…but for them, for whatever it was that they were…it was fitting.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** Hey guys! Sorry it took so long to get around to this. I just finished up one of my last four semesters of college and…TADA…found out like two days ago that I'm pregnant. Sooo, baby number two unexpectedly on the way! Needless to say, I've been a little distracted. BUT! I hope it was worth the wait! This is where things start to pick up a little bit and get evil, MWAHAHAHA! Enjoy the ride kids!

A huge thanks to Mel and Mikell for beta'ing this for me on the spot! You girls rock!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make nothing from the writing of this fic.

**Initiative **

Morning wasn't something Lydia often welcomed. It was even less welcomed when it intruded upon a well earned, sex-induced near-coma. Lydia yanked her pillow out from under her head and slammed it over her face with a muttered string of impressive curses. The sudden onslaught of unwanted brightness was almost as unwelcome as the chill she was slowly starting to become conscious of. She opened her eyes, a delicate frown knitting her brow. She didn't want to be awake. She wanted to be lost in that blissful, sated state of oblivion where she was being held close by a ghost that loved her and she had no desire what-so-ever to be out of his strong arms because the chill of his skin made her shiver. But she was awake. And she was freezing.

Reluctantly, she shimmied her way out of his hold, smiling when he grunted and rolled onto his back, flinging his arm over his head with an inarticulate slur of what was more than likely some incredibly foul language.

"Hmm, how _do_ I manage to resist him," she murmured affectionately. After indulging in a moment of silent admiration, easily shrugging off the nagging fact that she was admiring a dead man, Lydia pulled a quilt from the hope chest at the foot of the bed and wrapped the black and lavender creation around her. She shivered once more as the as warmth fought to crawl sluggishly over her bare skin.

The blanket wasn't enough. It wouldn't be - at least not enough to provide the immediate relief from the cold that she wanted. She glanced at in askance at Beetlejuice's still sleeping form which was now snoring lightly. Was he doing the human thing just for show? She shrugged and tip-toed out of the room. If it was just for show, it didn't matter much to her. The boundaries were down and the thought that he might shirk the act to follow her was highly exciting.

After a quick stop by the thermostat to jack the heat up to stifling, she slipped into the bathroom. She paused at the threshold. Sudden inspiration pulled her full lips into a devious smirk and she dropped the quilt, leaving it in a multi-colored pool in the middle of the hallway before closing the door behind her and locking it.

* * *

Beetlejuice was instantly aware of the vacated space beside him when consciousness slithered into the slumbering corners of his mind. He opened his eyes to glare at the rumpled sheets beside him, irritated that he'd been pulled from a highly vivid and erotic dream only to find the leading lady of that dream was not beside him where she damned well _should_ have been.

He sat up and looked around the room, absentmindedly scratching his stomach. Nothing. Go figure the little witch would up and leave the "morning after." She never really had been much of a convenience for him.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. She had been an extremely imaginative and inexhaustible convenience last night. Repeatedly.

He grinned and stretched his arms over his head, groaning when his spine shifted, a few vertebra snapping in the silence. That was one of the more annoying things about being dead – brittle bones that cracked loudly whenever the hell they felt like it. As he dropped his arms a sheet of familiar paper lying beneath the Handbook on the nightstand caught his attention.

The contract. Now _there_ was something interesting. Without Lydia's lithe body to distract him, he could think straight and thinking straight meant he could really start to question that rather worthless scrap of paper.

Her blood and his signature _should_ have held him. There was no way he should have been able to lay a finger on her. So how had he managed to? Lydia was a smart girl. She wouldn't have made even the slightest mistake when dealing with the dead. She knew more than most humans knew of the afterlife which meant she knew a majority of the endless rules that encompassed it.

Curious, he leaned over and pulled the slip of paper free. He juiced an already lit cigarette as almost an afterthought, eyes already scanning the words he'd begrudgingly memorized, looking for some small slip, one slight change in words as he relaxed against the headboard.

There were none.

His frown deepened as he took a drag and let the smoke roll slowly from between his lips. It spilled over the paper, obscuring the words momentarily behind a thin veil of toxic mist. Even unclear though, every word was just how he'd read it the night she'd presented the idiotic idea to him.

And then…there it was – one simple line of scrawled, nervous writing along the bottom of the page. The deal breaker.

"Whaaa-." He sat up, reading the words over and over.

Lydia had changed the contract. She'd knowingly provided him an instant out! And not just _an_ instant out…_the_ instant out. She'd given him the kind of freedom that went hand in hand with her heart and _that…_well, that was like the fucking get out of jail free card for Monopoly. Or it would be. The only thing she needed to do now - the thing that he was convinced would come a lot easier after last night - was to agree to them getting hitched.

Then again…the entire idea of getting hitched had shifted dramatically. Before, he was just looking to get the hell out of the Afterlife gig. There were no emotional attachments, no complications, a whole lot of nothing which appealed to him just fine. Now he'd gone and told Lydia that he loved her. And the bitch of it was…he'd meant it. Every word of it.

Groaning, he dropped the slip of paper and ran his hands over his face, then took a long, irritated drag of his cigarette. When the hell had he become such a sap?

_Not a sap. Just…just what?_

It was the memory of her scent that sparked abrupt realization. Black cherry….vanilla…wine…sin and innocence all tangled together in some wildly intricate and purely seductive array. She was the first thing he'd been able to smell in a hell of a long time, the first thing he'd been able to taste. And that taste, the way her touch burned over his skin, the fact that with her he'd found something he hadn't experienced since he'd been alive - he could _feel_ with her. The emotions he'd only faked in the past, the one's he'd put on display for easily manipulated women to get them into the nearest bed, alley way, table, what-have-you…he couldn't fake them with her. They were as real as she was.

Of course there was the fact that she was damned attractive – a fact he would admit without shame. She had the wide, dark eyes, the legs, the pale skin untouched by the sun. Lydia Deetz was the full package wrapped up with a sassy-as-hell bow.

With a bemused shake of his head at the thought, Beetlejuice ground his cigarette out in the ashtray on the nightstand. The shower was running, a soft and slightly off-key alto drifting over the sound of water hitting tile. A grin lit his face, one that only grew when he left the bedroom, stepped out into the hallway and saw the rumpled quilt lying in the middle of the carpeted length.

"Hm…I think that's an invite," he muttered to himself before evaporating into a hazy, obsidian mist.

* * *

Lydia had always prided herself on her knowledge of the Afterlife, silently proclaiming to know more than most people had a right to know about the mystery that awaited in the dark and insanely twisted land of the dead that had not yet managed cross over. She knew what it felt like to have a ghost nearby. She knew the telltale chill, the sudden shift in the pressure of the atmosphere, she knew that the hair on the back of one's neck would slowly stand on end as if the tip of a finger was very carefully and lightly passing over just close enough to brush those baby fine strands away from the skin. And now…she knew what it felt like to have a poltergeist in the most intimate of ways. So there was no excuse for not being aware of that certain poltergeist's sudden presence in her shower. Even as she reached for the tap to turn the hot water up and ward off the sudden breeze, it never occurred to her that she was no longer the only occupant in the spacious tile enclosure.

Her mind _was_ preoccupied, spinning with memories of the morbidly erotic ways Beetlejuice had driven her to the edges of ecstasy and dragged her back – sobbing, panting, clinging and exhausted yet craving far more than she was certain her aching body could handle.

_He's as relentless with sex as he is with haunting,_ she thought with a wry grin.

Lydia turned her back to the shower, trying to focus on actually washing her hair, a task which she had yet to finish. Of course at that moment she _would _think about their sexual antics on the way up the stairs, through the hallway, against the frame of her door where he just couldn't hold off the few stumbling seconds it would take to get to the bed, capturing her laughter with those dry, hungry lips as his hands circled her hips and slid to pull her legs around him…

The faint chill that crept suggestively up her claves, curled around the back of her knees and slipped between her thighs went entirely unnoticed until it was inside of her and she was against the slick tiles, grasping uselessly at them, gasping for breath, her eyes looking wildly around for the source of the sudden pleasure filled intrusion. Her search was short lived. The pressure suddenly increased, the tantalizing feel of hot and almost painful cold twisting deep within her and overwhelming her senses. She dropped her head back and closed her eyes, moaning deep in her throat.

"Not fair."

_Like you didn't want this. You mighta locked the door but you left that fuckin' sheet in the middle of the hallway like some kind of goddamned calling card. _

She smiled indulgently, opening her eyes only far enough to watch the hazy deep violet mist roll thick and lazy over the shower floor, twisting in contrast with the steam. She could easily imagine that same mist fogging her mind.

_Lydia, Lydia, Lydia…I can't decide where you look better – the couch, the hallway, the bed or right here…dripping wet…moaning my name._

There was a twist - a delicious curl of longing steeped in a sense of forbidden erotica - and her back arched away from the wall as his name left her lips on a long, low sigh. Her hair plastered itself to the slick blue ceramic.

_That's right baby-._

Again there was that twist, deeper this time, licking at every inner piece of her that craved him to near desperation – those secret places he couldn't physically touch. But this way…this way he had _all_ of her in a way she never even dreamed possible.

The sudden scrape of non-existent nails along the outsides of her thighs was enough to make her scream.

_I think you're likin' this…maybe a little too much. Maybe I should…_

Lydia's eyes flew open. She grabbed desperately for the shower head and gripped it tightly as her legs threatened to give out from beneath her. The sound of her wildly drumming pulse drowned out everything – the sound of water on the tiles, her own frantic gasps. The only sound she could hear was Beetlejuice's superior chuckle deep in the recesses of her muddled brain.

He pushed her harder and faster, filling every bit of her until she was desperate for release, sobbing and begging him, wanting to hold him but being unable to. Just when she was sure her sanity was about to snap, when she thought for sure she would die of such intense pleasure he slipped against her frazzled nerves and shoved her forcefully over the edge. She screamed, pressing herself back against the wall.

And then he was there, arms around her, lips at her neck, catching her before she fell and holding her tightly as she came down, raggedly dragging in each breath as if it were her last. Lydia clung to him. She couldn't feel her legs. She couldn't feel her _brain. _

"What did you-," she started, her voice trembling. "How did you…did you do that?"

"One of the perks of being dead." He nuzzled just below her ear and she shivered. "And I ain't even done with ya yet."

Lydia jerked. "You're not-?"

He pulled back and gave her a lazy grin. His dark eyes were full of an even darker promise. "Not even close."

With deliberate slowness, he pushed into her and like a wave, the intense pleasure washed over her again, fanning the sated desire until it burned restlessly. Would it always be this way? Would she always want him, even right after having him in a more intimate way than she ever could have imagined having someone? Would their lives together be nothing more than some sex riddled, smut filled novel with a trashy cover?

"Beej-."

He glanced up, a lecherous smile firmly in place. She ignored it. Sliding her hands up his arms, she placed them on either side of his face and rested her forehead against his.

"I meant what I said last night. I do love you."

It was a rare moment in what would likely be a history of rare moments scattered throughout a lifetime of sex and sarcasm. He stopped what he was doing, his hands came to rest on her hips and his eyes softened, turning an opaque green that made him look almost vulnerable.

"I love you too, Lyds."

Their lives could be nothing more than a trashy romance novel on some half off rack that often went ignored in the back, dusty corner of some old book store. She no longer cared. He loved her.

She had never known love. She had never known intimacy that thrived so recklessly. With him, even if he was dead, she had everything that she'd felt she was missing for so long. He could be disgusting. He could be vile and inappropriate and perverted. He could be anything, as long as he kept making her feel this alive.

For the next hour they made love, sharing long, slow kisses and using their hands and lips to explore each other as the water rushed over them, turning tepid and then bitterly cold. Beetlejuice would attempt to turn the tables, to bring in the twisted impatience and crudeness but one touch from Lydia, one whispered plea or one look from her luminous eyes would stop him.

"We need to get you out of here before you freeze to death."

Lydia looked up and smiled at the ghost guarding her from the icy spray, coming down slowly from the euphoric bliss he'd left her in. "How do you do it?"

"What?"

"The whole…tasting like coffee and caramel macchiato. How do you do it?"

He frowned. "What the fuck is caramel macchiato?"

"It's this blended latte with caramel and…" she paused and waved her hands dismissively. "You know what? It's not important. Get back down here."

She was rewarded with his look of mild surprise before his mouth was moving on hers again, cold and hungry, teeth scrapping her already bruised lips that were starting to turn blue.

"Babes…really. You're shakin' like crazy."

The fact that he cared made her unnaturally pleased. She smiled and reached down to turn off the tap before allowing him to pull her from the shower and wrap a thick towel around her.

"You're getting kinda soft there, Beetlejuice," she mused, reaching up and running her hands through his wet hair.

"Shut up or I'll drop this damn towel and leave ya here starkers in the cold."

She laughed and took the towel from him, tucking it securely around herself and turning to leave the bathroom. She stopped in her room to slip into a pair of low rise jeans and a deep gray sweater then went downstairs and tried to refrain from skipping into the kitchen where Beetlejuice stood lounging against the counter, a fresh pot of coffee beside him. She noticed that he'd chosen to juice up a pair of simple black slacks and an even more simple white t-shirt. It was oddly fitting and made him look far more alive than dead.

"You know, you don't have to keep up with the deal, Beej," she said as she reached into the cupboard for a mug. "The whole contract's kind of a moot point now."

"About that-."

His gaze was suddenly shrewd and leveled on her in a way that almost made her uncomfortable. Defiantly, she stared back.

"Saw the little change you made to the bottom." He paused and lifted his coffee to his lips, taking a sip before continuing. "If ya knew you were gonna cave anyway, why bother with some joke of a contract? Ya went to a lot of trouble for somethin' that wouldn't even hold up after day one."

Lydia shrugged. She'd asked herself that same question several times while penning the words onto the useless slip of paper. What was the point of making something to hold him back when she didn't want to hold him back? She wanted him there, in her room, in her bed, wanted him with sick, sadistic greed that had plagued her for most of her adult life. And she had known, even with the knowledge that her blood _would_ hold him to that contract, she had _known_ even when opening her flesh that it was all pointless.

"I wanted," she started, faltering to put into words what her mind was wildly spinning.

_There's always the truth…that thing that you keep fighting against…that thing you keep hiding from. You gave in this far…might as well give the rest. _

Lydia sighed in defeat. "I wanted to be able to control something for once."

"Control somethin'?"

"Yes, control something. I've got…no _control_ over anything."

"Babes, what are you talking about?" Beetlejuice scratched his head, frowning at her. "You got everything. You've got the life you wanted. You're all famous and shit because of your photography. Ya got the hell outta Winter River-."

Lydia laughed bitterly and shook her head, pushing away from the counter. She sank into a chair at the table, setting her coffee down before bracing her hands on either side of it. "That's not control," she muttered. "That's running. That's trying to get away from Delia and her constant ill-concealed irritation, trying to get away from what she was turning my dad into, trying to find something to keep my mind off of…" her voice trailed off. Ashamed by the moody teenager clawing her way free and showing face, Lydia hung her head and stared at the dark contents of her mug.

"Keep your mind off what?"

There was a scrape of chair legs against the linoleum and Beetlejuice was sitting beside her. She looked up, hesitating before saying very softy, "You."

She pushed herself up and ran her hands through her hair, musing it slightly. "I needed to keep my mind off of coming back here and trying to figure out what the deal was with all of these conflicting emotions. So I let…I let everyone kind of control my life for me – college professors, advisors, then agents and studio owners. Eventually the only thing I was doing was ignoring anything you-related by letting everyone else tell me what to do and how to do it. My fame isn't mine – it was at first but now…now all I do is take pictures of what people want me to take pictures of."

"Sooo, you came home and the first thing you decided to do was…try to control a poltergeist."

The humor in his deadpan voice had her smiling wryly. He returned the grin, shaking his head.

"I've had better ideas."

"No shit," Beetlejuice snorted. "Guess now would be a good time to figure out how to take control of your life, huh?"

Lydia lifted one non-committal shoulder and wrapped her hands around her mug. "Probably." She arched one delicate brow in his direction. "When did you become so insightful?"

"Eh, you hang around long enough, ya figure some shit out."

She chuckled then took a long slip of her coffee. The hot liquid scorched down her throat, warming her from the inside out.

"Well, I've got to run to the grocery store in a bit. I'm running low on actual food to eat and I should probably stop by-."

An abrupt knock at the front door interrupted her and she looked up, her brows lowering. Rage suddenly flared to life deep in her stomach and she resisted the strong urge to hiss. There was only one person who'd shown up with an annoying consistency over the past few days this early in the morning. And always before Lydia had finished her first cup of coffee. The woman just didn't learn.

"I swear to God," she muttered, shoving her chair back and standing. "That woman is going to regret ever stepping foot on my damned porch after I get done talking to her."

She stormed to the foyer and yanked the front door open. On the other side, prim and proper as ever, stood Jane Butterfield, pointed nose high in the air and frail shoulders squared as if she were not only prepared for but expecting a confrontation.

"Ah, Miss Deetz. I'm glad to have caught you at a…" she paused to sniff disdainfully. "..good time?"

Lydia crossed her arms over her chest. Out of spite and maybe a hint of malice, she lifted her nose as well, daringly staring down the length of it at the shrew before her. "Can I help you, Miss Butterfield?"

"I decided to stop by once more in the hopes that I can make you understand the position I am in and the financial benefits for you in selling your home. I understand that your parents-."

"I thought I made myself perfectly clear when I said we're not interested in selling," Lydia snapped, interrupting Jane.

"Be that as it may, Miss Deetz, I don't think you fully understand-."

Again, Lydia interrupted her. "What I understand, _Miss Butterfield,_ is that you are completely incapable of taking no for an answer. I'm not in the slightest bit interested in what you have to say or any bit of financial gain that may come from selling this house. I'm living in it now and unless I hear otherwise from my parents, the house will continue to stay in our name."

"Now, if you'll just listen-." Jane's eyes skittered nervously to something behind her and, if at all possible, the woman stiffened even further, pursing her lips.

"Had to come back for more, hm?"

Beetlejuice came to stand beside Lydia, leaning against the doorframe lazily. He raked a long, sordid look from the tip of Jane's head to her toes and back up again, a suggestive grin curling the corners of his lips.

Only mildly irritated with his sudden appearance, Lydia looked over at him. "Miss Butterfield just stopped by to try to convince me to sell the house…_again_."

"Sell the house." Beetlejuice winged a brow. "Well now, maybe we should hear the woman out."

Lydia's jaw dropped. She stared at him, incredulous disbelief stamped over her face. "Beej-."

"Not now, of course. Later…tonight over dinner maybe." He leveled a charming grin at Jane. "Whaddaya say, Janey? Join us for a gourmet meal and some business negotiations?"

The words "business negotiations" changed Jane's demeanor immediately. She was suddenly smiling – a triumphant smile of someone who believed they had just gained the upper hand. She lifted a hand and left it poised expectantly in midair. "That would be lovely, Mr.-."

"Beetleman, Babes." He took the offered hand, bowing over it dramatically and placing a chaste kiss on the papery skin. "And the pleasure's all mine."

The blush that spread over Jane Butterfields pallid cheeks was enough to make Lydia want to spill the contents of her non-existent breakfast all over the older woman's orthopedic clogs.

"What time?"

Beetlejuice straightened, then stepped back and slung an arm around Lydia's shoulders, holding her in place. She glared at him, but she highly doubted he cared.

"Well what time works for you, Lyds? Sevenin-ish?"

Jane didn't wait for an affirmative from Lydia. She rushed on, clearly attempting to remain in control of the conversation now that she believed she had the upper hand. "Seven. Perfect. I look forward to doing business with you…both," Jane added the last word with a hint of a sneer. Then, with a haughty nod in Lydia's direction, she spun on her heel and made her way down the steps.

Lydia waited for Beetlejuice to shut the door before she rounded on him, shoving him back with nothing more than a finger to his chest. "What the _hell_ are you doing?"  
"Babes, trust me." Beetlejuice snagged the offending finger and lifted it to his mouth, placing a delicate kiss on the very tip before smiling maliciously. "You and me…we're gonna have a little fun with Miss Janey Butterfield."

That gave her pause. She stopped her struggled against him, moving toward him instead, smiling slowly. "What vicious little plans have you got moving around in that head of yours," she murmured.

"Oh, lots babe." He leaned down, capturing her lips with his and sliding an arm around her waist. "Lots."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:** Okay, so OurLadyJuno…this one's for you hun! Thanks for convincing me to post this! It's been forever since I posted something and honestly…it's because I'm stuck. I'm having issues coming up with material to use against Jane that's morbid or sick enough. If anyone would like to rattle off some ideas or offer a suggestion or two, I'd be happy to have them!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

**Juiced**

"A happy ending without a happy ending."

Beetlejuice glanced lazily at the woman lounging against his chest, the cynicism in her voice drawing only the mildest of grins from him. He was far more interested in watching the water from the hot tub obscure the vision of her naked body, the harsh lights making her pale skin nearly glow. The very tips of her hair waved enticingly in the water, drifting over her pert breasts where his hands had lingered only moments before.

"Whaddaya mean?"

Lydia gestured with a slight frown to the television mounted on the wall where the ragtag group of survivors from a recent zombie attack celebrated with a little first-base action and twinkies. "They end the movie on such a high note. Yay, they beat that _one_ group of zombies and will live to see another day. What about the day after that? Or like…a month later. It's a zombie apocalypse. They're going to get eaten eventually."

"Ya never know. People could survive a zombie apocalypse," he argued simply for the sake of arguing. He was quickly finding out that as much as he loved wild sex with Lydia Deetz, he enjoyed talking to her just as much, if not more. She thought like no one he'd ever met - always curious, always seeing a side people never normally tended to want to see. A normal person would look at a headstone covered with moss and overgrowth and be either furious or at least disgusted with the lack of upkeep. Not Lydia. She saw something entirely different.

Earlier that day, after their discussion over what to do with the ever-nosey Jane Butterfield, they'd walked along the perimeter of the Winter River cemetery back in the corners where the evergreens were thick and the shadows long. Sun peeked through the pine laden branches but what little there was served only to speckle the corroded landscape with meager lighting. Lydia had looked over the aged marble, spotted with frostbitten moss, mounded with snow and entrapped in dead, brown overgrowth…and she had told him how beautiful it was, that the earth had such a hold over the body of someone who was no longer there.

"She doesn't want to let go" she had murmured as she'd moved forward to slide her fingers reverently over the scarred surface of the marker. "That person was _hers_ and they've gone on now to who-knows-where. But she just can't seem to let them go."

And here he'd just thought they looked like every other tilted headstone with another name etched into it that he didn't care to read.

She turned to him now, grinning skeptically, and he bit down on his lower lip when her bare legs swept over his. "How?"

"How?" he repeated dumbly. He was back on that train of thought that involved nothing other than screwing her brains out. It was a damned good train of thought though at the moment, its timing sucked.

She knew exactly what was going through his head. The devious little smirk told him that much. "_How_ exactly would you go about surviving a zombie apocalypse?"

"Uh…double tap?"

Her smirk widened to a grin and she twisted further, sliding one leg between them until she was straddling his waist. "Cardio," she murmured, running her nails seductively down his chest.

He leered back, gripping her hips and pulling her closer. "We could just hold up in some swanky ass house fuckin' like rabid lions until they get sick of hunting down the living and start eating each other."

"That idea has potential," Lydia purred.

One quick jerk was all it would take to slide into her, to watch those passion-fogged eyes roll back, to watch her head drop and hear a one of those low moans slip through her wet lips. He tightened his hands around her hips, already anticipating the satisfaction of her now familiar heat. And then Jane Butterfield had to ruin it with that annoying rap of hers on the front door.

Beetlejuice dropped his head to Lydia's shoulders, defeated. "She's fifteen fucking minutes early," he growled.

"You're the one who invited her," came Lydia's cynical response.

He pushed back and glared playfully up at her. "Guess we'll just have to celebrate later, Babes. Ya ready?"

Lydia went tense. Uncertainty crept into her face and overtook the lingering excitement in her eyes. "Beej, maybe there's another way we can do this. I mean, you've _seen_ the woman. It shouldn't take much to scare her off."

Beetlejuice clasped her face gently between his hands. "Babes…we talked about this. It's a level one possession. You'll still be in full control. I'll just be able to get ya to do a bunch of shit you normally wouldn't be able to do."

"Yeah, but couldn't you just-."

"Ain't gonna work as well comin' from me. She'll still come back to fuck with you and you know it."

She wavered somewhere between resistance and caving entirely, her white teeth worrying her bottom lip. If she kept _that_ up he was going to say screw it to their plan and just spend the next hour the way they'd spent a majority of the day.

"Lyds," Beetlejuice coaxed, sweeping a thumb slowly over her cheekbone. "I'm not gonna do anything ya don't want me to do, okay? You start feelin' like this isn't something you want to do, just gimme a look or some shit like that and I'll," he paused to waggle his brows at her in an attempt to earn a grin, "slip right on out."

"You're gross," she muttered, but her lips twitched at the corners and he considered it enough of a victory.

"You dig it."

She rolled her eyes and pushed away from him, the water tugging gently in the wake of her absence, a silent call to follow her. He resisted, leaning back and draping his arms over the back of the tub to instead watch her rise from the water and turn, giving him a tantalizing view of her back. The water trickling down her waist and over the curve of her hips was another one of those things that was going to have him yanking her back into the hot water and making decidedly better use of their time. With a disgusted sigh he snagged the beer bottle to his left, tilted it to his lips and snapped the fingers of his other hand, effectively taking care of the problem.

As Lydia stepped from the hot tub, unseen hands twisted at her hair, pulling it away from her face and securing it high on the back of her head. Several chunks fell forward to frame her face, eyes lined and shadowed darkly and lips now colored in deep vibrant red. From her shoulders, wisps of thick black mist twisted in the air before spilling over her, coveting her naked skin like an overprotective lover. It formed around her shoulders, stomach, torso, hips and stopped mid-calf, hovering delicately and unmoving before suddenly tightening around her and solidifying into a slinky midnight silk that left her back entirely exposed and clung like a second skin to her upper body.

Beetlejuice frowned deeply and tilted the beer bottle back even further, draining the contents. That little getup only made the urge to have his way with her much more difficult to ignore.

He cursed softly and set the empty bottle aside before pushing himself up and following after her. Another quick snap and, with much less dramatic flair, he was dressed to entertain as well, decked out in a slightly ill fitting black suit with a dark blue silk dress shirt and a thin black tie. He lifted his hands to unnecessarily straighten his tie before running them through his hair to smooth it away from his face.

"Lyds-."

She turned, her wide eyes meeting his. Closing the distance between them, Beetlejuice clasped her face between his hands again, then lowered his mouth to hers, ignoring the lingering apprehension in the depths of gaze. There was only one way really to make her understand just how harmless a level one possession was, and that was to flat out show her.

Her breath caught and she went stiff, but it didn't take long for her to melt against him. One pass of his nails down her spine and she was nothing but wilted acceptance forming to his body. It was then, when she was weak and willing, that he slipped in. With nothing more than an exhaled breath, he was steeped in the subconscious of Lydia's mind. It was tempting to wander, to poke at the edges and find out just how much of him existed there. Of course, with loving Lydia came that disgusting sense of respect that he'd be wiping shit covered boots all over if he decided to take liberties with the inner workings of her mind. So he settled and waited, detaching himself enough to come back and pull away.

"Couldn't even tell, could ya?" he offered with a smug grin.

"I…" her brows furrowed and a frown pursed her pretty lips. "No. Did you…already do it?"

"Yup. Now all that's left…is to give that Butterfield Bitch a reason to never even think about coming back here. Ready?"

She stood still for a moment, still looking confused, as if she didn't believe he'd actually pulled off a level one possession without her even noticing. "So you're just…in there?"

With a tolerant sigh and a roll of the eyes, he placed a hand at the small of her back and guided her to the entry where Jane was knocking away at the door once more, impatience evident in every sharp rap.

"Yup, just hangin' out in the corner waitin' for my cue. Until then-." He twisted her and pressed her against the wall with a lascivious grin. "You just be your beautiful," he bent to press his lips to the smooth column of her neck, "charming" up higher to the curve of her ear, "sexy little self. And leave the rest…to me."

He straightened suddenly and ushered her forward, placing a solid smack on her backside and earning himself a glare which he pointedly ignored, reaching around her to twist the knob and open the door.

Jane stood bathed in the dim porch light on the other side, wearing her vast look of haughty superiority like an ill fitting second skin. Beetlejuice wondered if she'd already joined the land of the undead. She looked…unnatural. Not that he was anyone to talk, but there was something about the woman that just seemed off in a way that reminded him of every dead-as-a-doornail prissy poltergeist that had momentarily landed their unfortunate asses in the Afterlife instead of moving on.

Her gaze slanted to Lydia for the briefest of seconds before zoning in on what she had obviously decided was her income interest. Beetlejuice grinned back. His fingers itched to pull out the big guns and send her running immediately, the excitement thick on his tongue. He knew that would not be a cure-all to Lydia's problems with the woman though. This would have to be played out…plotted. Little stiff Janie would have to be lured in and tampered with slowly or they would never get it through her thick, stuck-up skull that her presence wasn't at all wanted.

"Mr. Beetleman," she greeted, extending a hand stiffly.

He took it, but rather than shake the offered appendage, he bent low over it and pressed his lips to her knuckles. The feel and sent of oily lotion nearly made him gag. He quickly rose and forced his mouth to remain fixed in an impassive smile instead. "Pleasure."

"I hope you don't mind me coming early. The offers for this property keep coming in. I had to get out of the house and away from the phone. It just kept on ringing."

It was a lie. One look at Lydia showed that she felt the same way. She rolled her dark eyes, then scowled as the shorter woman shoved rudely past her. The scowl deepened when Jane hooked her arm through Beetlejuice's and ushered him away from the foyer. He looked over his shoulder, shrugging helplessly. There wasn't much he could do to stop Jane in her man-handling ways. Not yet anyway. Oh, but that would all change.

"Lemme get ya a little somethin' to wet that sweet little tongue of yours with. Red?"

"Oh, no no. I really shouldn't. I'm not much on alcoholic-."

Beetlejuice snapped his fingers, easily ignoring her arguments and from the darkened kitchen came a frail and impossibly tall man. Dressed in moth-eaten finery, he carried with him an air of servitude, three wine glasses and a bottle of unlabeled, deep red wine.

"Mmm, just what the Beetleman ordered," Beetlejuice joked horribly as he took the wine and glasses and shooed the impromptu butler off with a glare. Leading Jane into the dinning room, he stood back as the two women seated themselves directly across from one another, Lydia glaring with unconcealed hostility at Jane while Jane kept her sharp, hawk-like gaze on him. It was a little disconcerting, having the eyes of the woman you planed on scarring the shit out of fixated on you instead of the eyes of the woman you'd spent half the day screwing. It made his skin crawl. He didn't even know he could still feel the slithering creep of uneasiness…but apparently – with this woman – he could.

Handing a glass to Lydia, he shared a look with her, silently reminding her that he was on her side, then turned the full charm of his smile on Jane. The smile she returned was decidedly carnivorous.

"So, Mr. Beetleman…what role do you play in ownership of this house?" she asked, cutting right to the chase. The woman wanted to know who she was really answering too. She wasn't stupid…which meant she was going to need more wine to remain lucid enough to doubt what she was seeing and not hightail it the hell out of there right away before they had a chance to really toy with her.

And damn it, he didn't have an answer for her.

"Mr. Beetleman was in charge of renovations," Lydia supplied disdainfully. She lifted her glass to her lips and swirled the liquid with an air of boredom, watching it swish gracefully along the inside before letting it settle and lifting it to her lips. "If you haven't noticed, there have been several changes made to the house."

"Yeah, that's it," Beetlejuice quickly tacked on. "Everything you see here," he gestured grandly, "Work of yours truly."

"It's…" Jane looked around. Her meticulously kept nails played with the stem of her seemingly forgotten wine glass. "It's very…unique."

Okay, time to start fighting dirty. Beetlejuice sat back in his chair, draping one arm over the back and hooking his ankle on the opposite knee. A narrowing of the eyes, a barely discernable twiddle of the fingers and hers were tightening around the stem, lifting the glass to thin lips that drank deeply. She didn't stop until it was gone.

Without a word, Beetlejuice refilled her glass and watched with complete satisfaction when she tilted the glass to her lips and drained it once more.

"That's me, babe…all sorts of unique. We could show you around…give you a personal tour of some of my best work."

Jane swayed forward and held out her glass, watching her own movements with a look that bordered on surprise. "That would be…um…lovely," she mumbled. Her brows lowered for a moment and then, as if she were suddenly reminded of the situation at hand, she sat up and forced her thin lips into some semblance of a smile. "Being able to give a description of the interior could quite possibly sweeten the offer."

"Ah, Janey," he shoved back and offered her a hand, making sure she polished off one more glass before pulling her up from her chair. "You money hungry bitch, I like the way you think."

"Mr. Beetleman!" she cried, putting on quite a show for a woman who knew he'd pinned her entirely. The wine was doing its job though, and regardless of what Mrs. Sober Butterfield would say, the slightly intoxicated version was more on the cynically honest side."Well…it never hurts to know where you can make a solid investment."

"Not at all," he murmured with a malicious grin.

_And now…enter Lydia. _


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** DONE! OMG Done! Well, not done done but done with this chapter done. A huge thanks to Juno, Mikell and Melody for keeping me going on this and egging me on. And a HUGE thanks to Juno for being such an inspiration to me. What a lovely muse you are! When I travel this far out of my usual genre I tend to get this impression that I need to almost overdo things sooo, that's why this baby took so long. Hopefully I didn't overdue it though! Enjoy guys! Oh, and I'm going to appologize now and ask that you don't hunt me down to do me bodily harm after reading this. Love to all!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

**Juiced**

Lydia decided right away that being possessed was a decidedly unsettling feeling. Her body no longer felt like her own - her skin clammy and far too tight. Her awareness of everything seemed to be heightened. She touched the stem of her wineglass and felt the cool slide of glass against her fingertips. She stood and felt every muscle in her body shift to accommodate the movement, sliding over her bones in a languid caress. Jane's voice was much more sharp and the smell of her perfume an overpowering stench that hinted at hidden money and dark, filthy secrecy.

_Lets take a peek, huh Lyds? See what ol' Janey Girl is hiding?_

A sudden flash in her subconscious momentarily removed her from the situation. It brought her back to a dark night, a shrouded clearing and an open grave. Jane Butterfield stood over it – her face a mask of haughty indifference. Beside her was a shovel jutting crookedly from a pile of fresh soil, the blade caked in thick clumps of mud. And beside that…two rectangles of overgrown, discolored earth.

_What is this?_

_Janey's hideous past,_ came Beetlejuices gravely whisper. _Also known as…leverage. Colorful, aint it?_

_I don't understand…_

_Look closer._

Feeling as if she were participating in someone else's dream, Lydia drifted forward, until the yawning opening of the grave was nearly under her. As she moved, so did Jane, reaching for the shovel, her blood and earth stained hands curling around the handle and yanking it free. The first scoop of dirt fell unceremoniously and thumped in a hollow sounding heap that sparked a thick, horrified fear deep in the pit of Lydia's stomach. She peered over the edge, easily able to make out the wide eyes staring lifelessly up at her, regardless of the wet mud splattered over the man's face.

_Who is that…?_

Beetlejuice laughed somewhere above her, a sadistic chuckle that lacked even a hint of remorse for the poor bastard lying in the grave and waiting to be nothing more than a forgotten corpse like his unfortunate companions.

_Husband number three. The dumb sap never saw it comin', even with rumors flyin' about the two husbands she had before him disappearin'. _

Lydia blinked and was back in her house, staring after Beetlejuice and Jane as they made their way into the living room. She startled slightly, grabbing for the banister of the stairway to steady herself and regain some semblance of her surroundings.

_We've got the leverage, now to use it. _

Glaring at the owner of the disembodied voice, Lydia pushed off the banister and smoothed her hands down her hips. "No more of that," she muttered, falling into step behind them.

"You certainly did change things, Mr. Beetleman," Jane was saying, gesturing grandly to the open living room with a wine glass that was full yet again. The dark liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim, a few droplets slipping free and splattering against the tile. "But I suppose this modern concept is what buyers are demanding now."

"They sure are, Janey," Beetlejuice answered, stopping to release Jane and allow her to wander. "The snobs are wantin' nothin' but shiny and expensive. Anything that screams 'I'm loaded,' ain't that right, Lyds?"

Lydia moved to his side, tensing when he dropped an arm casually over her shoulders. "Sure," she muttered.

_Problem Babes?_

Though she may have loved him, Lydia quickly decided that Beetlejuice's disembodied voice rumbling through her head wasn't something she enjoyed at the moment. But he was there and he was in control…somewhat. She had to keep reminding herself of that 'somewhat' even as she questioned it. What did a level one possession entail anyway?

"I don't like this," she murmured softly, her gaze never leaving Jane. Her distrust of the woman had manifested into a sick fear. "She's _killed_ people, Beetlejuice."

"Three," he returned, his lips curling viciously. "Got a ways to go before she gets even close to _my_ magic number."

The statement shouldn't have come as a surprise. Being around as long as he had, having the reputation that he did…of course Beetlejuice would have a death toll to keep track of. But hearing the admission from the source made her blood run cold almost as much as the morbid sense of comfort a darker part of her found in the statement.

That darker part…that slip of demonic that delighted in the sinister side of the paranormal and reveled in the aching depth of horror was the part Beetlejuice quickly found. He wrapped himself around it in such a way that she could feel him doing so. She could feel the seductive tug of his power. Spiritual fingertips guided that secret part of her free, told it to breathe and be heard. Lydia made one feeble attempt at resisting the allure of shadowy temptation. Only one. Beetlejuice was quick to silence it, using his powers to seductively curb her will to his. He touched her in a way that only he could and she gasped, her eyes rolling back in her head and her knees going weak.

"Lemme in, Lyds," he breathed close to her ear, his arm supporting her. "Lemme in so we can play."

"Yes," she whispered back, her eyes fluttering open and a cruel smile twisting her full lips. What anxiety was left in her, what fear that had briefly festered for Jane Butterfield's presence in her home, was gone. New untouched powers twisted with Beetlejuice's, washing over the lingering emotions like a white-capped wave and dragging them away do the deep obscurity of her subconscious. She felt…evil. Wickedly, deliciously evil.

"Let's play," she murmured, lifting a hand to test her newly created abilities. One tiny wiggle of her fingers and the lights flickered.

Jane immediately turned and looked towards the lighting fixtures, a frown pursing her brow.

"The décor may be new…but the wiring never did get replaced." Another wiggle of her fingertips and a fire flared to life in the hearth of the adjoining room. Every candle gracing a tabletop or shelf flickered softly, solitary flames licking at the wicks and inching high from their waxy reservoirs. "I always did prefer natural lighting. Much easier to work with and…manipulate."

"Nice choice of words, Babes," Beelejuice said approvingly.

Casting him a mildly amused look, Lydia moved away from his protective embrace. She crossed one arm over her chest and propped the elbow of her other in the crook, lazily waving her wine glass in an all encompassing gesture to the house. "Would your clients be able to overlook a few minor electrical repairs?"

Distrust was evident in Jane's eyes as she regarded Lydia. "Given the location and the…improvements made to the home, it might drop the price a little but not by much."

She hesitated on the words improvement, allowing a glimpse into the distaste that laced her financial intentions. Lydia hummed and walked past Jane, moving to the wall that Delia had reserved for her failed attempts at photography. She glanced over the black and white still shots, seemingly ignoring the other two.

"Mr. Beetleman, when did you say the renovations-."

"Mr. Beetleman is not the one overseeing the business aspects of this conversation," Lydia interrupted the other woman, letting her arm fall to her side and taking a deep sip of her wine before continuing. "He isn't, after all, the owner of the home. Tell me, Jane." She tapped her fingers to one photographs, trailing her nails down the lacquered framing to the wall below it. She dug her nails in, tearing long, angry gouges slowly through the drywall. Thick, crimson liquid oozed from the openings. She dipped her fingers in it and rubbed them together, smearing bright red over her skin. "How do you clients feel about walls that bleed?"

"Now that wasn't something my guys had a hand in," Beetlejuice muttered.

"That's just the problem, Mr. Beetleman." Lydia turned to face him, lifting her glass in a mock toast. "Your men _didn't_ have a hand in it. But you did…didn't you? And now you've got _too_ much of a hand in it." Lydia drained the contents of her glass and set it aside on a table that housed another one of Delia's plaster creations. A sliver of light flickering below the rebar legs caught her attention and even as sickening fear pulsated deep within her, excitement and that bloodthirsty darkness overcame it. She reached down, her hand curling around the hilt of a knife that had manifested seemingly out of nowhere. Beetlejuice's work, no doubt.

Angling a coy look at the poltergeist, she slowly closed the distance between them. His eyes were on the knife, knowing and calculating even though his face was carefully fixated in a look of startled fear. Jane stood frozen to the spot, her horrified gaze darting frantically between Beetlejuice and Lydia.

"I think you're work here is officially done."

The words were a breathy whisper, nearly overpowered by the rationality screaming far in the recesses of her mind, begging Beetlejuice to stop.

The blade slid neatly just below his ribcage, unhindered by clothing and skin. A scalding hot blade through semi-soft butter…that's all she could think as she watched her hand shove the knife deep to the hilt. Beetlejuice's hand came up as if to grab Lydia's, to stop it. It stilled just over hers.

_Doesn't hurt at all, Babes._

His words offered her nothing. No comfort, no gratification. She was indifferent. This _thing_ she had become with Beetlejuice inside of her…it could have cared less if it were Beetlejuice or Jane on the other end of that knife.

Beetlejuice staggered back dramatically, arms dropping to his side. He stared at the handle protruding from his chest. A soft cough escaped him. He went to his knees, his hand lashing out and knocking several decorative knickknacks from a nearby end table. As he crumple to a lifeless heap on the floor, Lydia turned to look at Jane.

"Well-." She plucked a non-existent speck from her dress and flicked it away with a mild look of disgust. "Now that _he's_ out of the way..."

Jane stared wide-eyed at Lydia, her mouth fixed in a thin line, lips pursed so hard together that the skin around them had turned a shade pastier than her complexion. Her eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. Though it was difficult, Lydia tried not to laugh at the other woman's terror stricken expression.

"Maybe we should move back to the dining room where we can-."

Before she was able to finish the sentence, Jane was releasing what could hardly be considered a shriek and running for the front door. She grappled the handle, desperate to get out of the house. When the handle finally turned, she sobbed in relief and jerked the door open. Her relief, however, was short lived.

Standing on the threshold, staring at her through rotted, sunken eyes, were three men. Even in the darkness, it was easy to see there was something very much wrong with them. Their clothing hung from their skeletal frames, clumps of mud clinging to the threadbare fabric. Their skin stretched tightly over what remained of muscle and bone. And they didn't speak. They just stared at Jane with hungry, vengeful eyes that had yellowed with age and death.

Sidling up behind her, Lydia grinned. "I hope you don't mind if I invited some legal counsel of my own. With as touchy as this subject seems to be for both of us and our inability to communicate decently, I figured it was the smart thing to do. I trust no introductions should be needed, being that you were married to all of these fine gentlemen at some point in your life?"

Jane stumbled back into Lydia, shaking her head and making pitiful whimpering noises.

"Good." Lydia lifted a hand and snapped her fingers. A chair from the dining room slid free from under the table and teetered its way disjointedly to where they stood. "Have a seat, Jane."

Unseen hands grabbed the older woman, pulling her down roughly. She shrieked and immediately fought back, even though it was pointless. She was a captive in the chair now toddling back to the table. No amount of screaming or struggling would change that.

"Gentlemen?" Lydia said politely, ushering in the three dead husbands and leading them to where Jane now waited, pulled up so closely to the tale that her chest pressed uncomfortably against the unyielding wood. They took up seats around her, staring at the woman in a way that made even Lydia's skin crawl. Had Beetlejuice not had some modicum of control over them, Lydia was certain they would have killed Jane. And they wouldn't have been very merciful in doing so. That sane, rational part of her shouted to get this over with quickly, before the three men did start to overpower the situation.

"Now, Mrs. Butterfield," she murmured, bracing her hands on the table across from Jane. "I have told you several times that this house is not for sale, but you seem to keep missing that little fact. I've made it _very_ clear that I have no intention of selling. So I suggest you start listening. Call your client first thing in the morning," Lydia said, then grinned, her teeth flashing white and sharp. She leaned over the table, stopping just shy of the woman's pointed nose before saying in a very haughty Jane Butterfield voice, "or I'll be more than happy to call them for you."

Jane screamed and veered back. Her chair toppled loudly to the floor and she nearly tripped over the legs in her haste to get away from Lydia, gaining her footing only long enough to slam into Beetlejuice as he rounded the corner, a disgruntled look on his face and the knife Lydia had run him through with dangling from his loose grip.

"Oh, hey Janey!" He dropped the knife and grinned. "Leaving so soon?"

The bloodcurdling scream wrenched from Jane Butterfield's throat far outdid any of those before it. She shoved Beetlejuice aside, looking down at her hands briefly and moaning at the blood smeared over her palms before sprinting for the front door. She yanked it open, sparing not even a backwards glance and leaving it wide open in her hast to get out of the house.

"Guess that means she's not interested!" Beetlejuice yelled at her retreating back, then slammed the door and immediately doubled over, nearly choking on an uncontrollable bought of hysterical laughter.

The three men in the dining room with Lydia vanished, leaving her to lean heavily against the table, her limbs trembling as they supported her. She felt weak and shaky. Beelejuice had slid from within her abruptly, taking with him every dark, twisted feeling that had manhandled her. She was in control once more, though she was finding it difficult to feel good about that simple fact. Breathing heavily, Lydia lifted her head and stared at the demonic being on her threshold, having a good laugh at Jane Butterfields expanse. Then her gaze dropped to the knife – the knife Beelejuice had coaxed her into using. The knife she'd stabbed him with.

"That woman couldn't _be_ more gone! I think she actually left tire tracks in the fuckin' gravel!"

"Beetlejuice…"

"I doubt…._fuckin' doubt…_that bitch'll show her ugly pointed nose back here again," he continued, Lydia's small voice barely registering in his mind.

"Beetlejuice…"

The second time, it wasn't the timid, breathless quality of his name on her tongue that drew him. It was the tingle that shot straight down his spine, snaked around his insides and tugged persistently at his stomach. He whirled, humor quickly forgotten. Lydia stared back at him, her dark eyes wide and terrified. They were suddenly back in the living room on their wedding night. Only this time, Lydia wasn't scared to the point that her voice didn't work.

"Lyds…don't-."

"Beetlejuice."

And he was back in his realm, back in his shit-hole room, staring through the mirror into Lydia's empty bedroom where the blankets still tumbled in a rumpled mess from the foot of the bed where they had kicked it in the midst of their crazed sexual antics. He blinked, his mouth working soundlessly as he tried to piece together what exactly had just happened. When he came up with nothing, he settled for the next best thing. His brows lowered angrily, his fists clenched at his side and he released a hissing growl of pure fury before lifting a fist and slamming it into the glass.

Cracks spidered quickly along the smooth surface, stretching to the very edges of the mirror. But the glass held. Only a small part of him wished that it hadn't.

* * *

The inner sanctum would have been shrouded in darkness had it not been for the meager glow of the desktop lamp. The light only reached so far though, threading over the dark area rug and glossy finish of the desk – glinting across a tumbler full of amber liquid clasped in a gnarled hand.

Father Andrew Carmichael had just settled into his worn leather office chair to wash away the long day with a straight glass of aged scotch when the distant sound of knuckles against the thick wood of the chapel door drifted through his study. A glower lowered his black brows over equally black eyes and a frown pursed his pallid features. He lifted his snifter to his lips, inhaling the scent of liquor and opted to ignore it. That was…until it came again, much more insistently.

With a harsh oath, he threw the contents of the glass back and slammed it down on his desk before pushing himself out of his chair and striding angrily to answer the call of whatever desperate parishioner couldn't manage to wait until morning to speak with him. Anger over not being able to enjoy a beautifully aged dose of scotch caused him to leave the lights off as he moved through the large church. Let whoever it was know just how much they'd disturbed his peace. He was half tempted to turn and rush back to his rooms to grab a robe and throw it over his clothing so that whoever it was would clearly see this for the inconvenience that it was.

Gripping the ornate handle of the front door, he pulled it open. "What on earth is so important that it couldn't possibly wait until morning?" he bellowed.

"Andrew-."

"Jane?" Instantly he calmed, the demeanor of the woman startling him. Jane was always so poised and certain. Even when she came to him late in the night to satisfy both their darker sexual natures, she was the perfect lady. To see her shaken and vulnerable was very unnatural. "Come in," he said, quickly wrapping an arm around her tiny waist and leading her inside.

She turned into him, clutching at his shirt. "Andrew…oh, Andrew," she murmured breathlessly, her voice hitching. "I need your help."

"Of course, Jane. Whatever it is you need…"

She jerked back and looked up at him, her gaze pleading…feverish. Her fingers curled around tiny fistfuls of his shirt. "I need-," she paused to take a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "I need an exorcism."

**A/N:** Again...please dont hurt me. Lol.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** Hello all! Thanks for your patience throughout the writing of this fic. You guys are all awesome with your reviews and support! A big thank you to Melody Winters for being my beta on this one! And to ourladyjuno…this one's for you honey! The romancey smutty goo is all yours! Inspired by you, provoked by you…pick one. Also, a big thanks for helping me out through the hitchy parts where the plot was eluding me and for being my muse in general! Hope you love it!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

**Owned**

Staying in the house hadn't been an option. With a no-doubt enraged poltergeist, walls that remained stained crimson though the long gashes she'd dug with her own nails were gone and a knife that lay between the living room and dining room as a silent testament to an act she was no longer certain was all Beetlejuice's doing…all she could think to do was run.

The only thing she'd bothered to do before sprinting from the place she'd felt so comfortable in only a day before was slip her shoes and coat on before grabbing her keys and reenacting Jane's dramatic departure – minus the screaming of course. Though, she would never deny that there had been the need to, burning at the back of her throat so intensely that tears had gathered in her eyes and remained her constant companion throughout the trip back to Hartford.

For five days she remained a willing prisoner in her apartment, alienating herself from the world. She took no phone calls, only left if she had to, ate next to nothing and bided her time thinking in wild, endless circles that made her feel more crazy than anything else. It was misery - misery that closely resembled that of which she'd lived in before returning to Winter River. Before Beetlejuice.

The only difference between that misery and what she lived in now was the doubt and self-loathing that nipped incessantly at her heels as she wore paths in the laminate floor with her nervous pacing. Of course, there was the deep, painful ache of longing that wrapped itself around her like a death shroud as well. She missed Beetlejuice terribly, even at the time she had tried to place blame on him. It had only been once that she had attempted to shove all responsibility off on the unsuspecting ghost, but that argument had been short lived. Honesty had forced her to understand her part in that night as much as it had forced her to understand Beelejuice's. And she was no innocent.

Yes, Beetlejuice may have been in control of her…but it was only to an extent. His thoughts were suggestions that had provoked something hidden inside of her until it had slithered free and surprised them both with its scheming psychosis and detached manner. The further she had driven that night, thick snowflakes streaking through the low-beams and obscuring the road, the more she had started to understand that she wasn't afraid of Beetlejuice…she was afraid of what he had awakened. She was afraid of herself.

Understanding that was one thing. Coming to terms with it was something else entirely. And it took her four days to realize she couldn't do it on her own. The fifth day of self-imprisonment was less about fearful confusion and more about sulking. And not the kind of sulking an overemotional teenager would do…but a brooding, self-disgusted, wine-hazed sulking. She had spent several of those drunken hours arguing herself which left her feeling quite pitiful.

The next morning, nursing a hangover that had her swearing off any form of alcohol for the rest of her life, Lydia took the time to pack more of her belongings. There was no rush to return to Winter River this time so she was careful to pack things she knew she would need instead of hastily grabbing clothing from drawers and shoving them in a bag. She tried _not_ to think of Beetlejuice as she moved about her apartment, but it was impossible. She couldn't help wondering if he was still stuck in the house, if he was furious with her for sending him back, if he missed her as badly as she missed him.

Three trips, a car loaded with clothing, toiletries, half of her kitchen contents later and after several hours spent agonizing over a ghost that could quite possible care less if she was even alive at the moment, Lydia was on the road back to Winter River.

Fog had settled over the outer limits of the city overnight and the sun was slowly burning away at what remained of it as Lydia passed the last of the exits. Left in the wake of the haze was a thick layer of hoarfrost that clung insistently to trees and the thin wire that stretched between fence posts along the roadside. She forced herself to admire the scenery instead of thinking about _him. _But even after listing the artists who'd used such scenery and sold out to have their work plastered over coffee mugs and decorative plates, it proved useless.

She tried drowning out every thought, twisting the radio dial until she found a suitable station and turning the volume up until she was certain it would either shatter her ear drums or at least cost her a seat of cheap, manufacturer's speakers. A minute into the second song and that proved to be a horrible idea, the music provoking images of wildly sexual moments spent wrapped around Beetlejuice, his lips and hands all over her body, burning even though his touch was chilled.

Shaken by the sudden onslaught of lurid images, Lydia reached for her purse and dug frantically for a pack of cigarettes. Once her fingers closed around it, she pulled it free, flipped open the lid with her thumb immediately fumbled the pack. Cigarettes slipped free and scattered over the passenger seat. Swearing softly, Lydai took her eyes from the road to reach for the nearest one, visually missing the patch of glare ice stretched over the road ahead. Her car was not nearly as fortunate. Her tires hit the slick surface as she inadvertently turned the wheel in her efforts to indulge in nicotine comfort and Lydia jerked up as the car started to slip sideways.

"Shit!"

She took her foot from the brake immediately and focused her entire attention on steering in the direction she was sliding. Her mind slipped from frantic and distracted to alert and logical, taking her back to Drivers Ed and the droning voice of her instructor giving her a bland run-down of how to control a skid. Not even seconds later her tires gained purchase on asphalt and she pulled over to the side of the road, slipping the gearshift into park. The car stilled, the engine thrumming as it idled, and Lydia sank into her seat, dropping her head back and resting a trembling hand over her face.

How had she come to this? How had she turned into a woman whose emotions were wound so uncomfortably tight around a ghost that she couldn't even behave like a sane, rational _living _person?

After cracking the window, she blindly reached for a cigarette, lit it and drew in the nicotine comfort. She let her head drop back once more as she exhaled, the smoke drifting up the window and serving no other purpose than to remind her of the morning Beetlejuice had crept into the shower with her and pleasured her in the most erotic ways possible without even being in solid form.

"Not helpful," she muttered to herself, taking another long drag.

She swept her hand back over her hair and sighed, taking several long minutes to find the balance she'd been lacking over the past five days. She'd let rationality and logic sift to the bottom of the mess that was her current emotional state. It had taken a near accident to force them back to the surface. And once they were there, they manipulated the confusion and fear, forcing them back until the only thing left to do…was be undeniably furious.

Lydia sat up and tossed her cigarette out the window. Reaching for the shifter, she yanked the car into gear and started to drive for Winter River again. Beetlejuice may have not been entirely to blame but he'd taken liberties with her…he'd used her to his own sick advantage to scare the hell out of Jane Butterfield and scared Lydia in the process and damn it, he was going to answer for that.

When she pulled into the driveway, seven cigarettes remaining in what had been a nearly full pack at the start of her drive, the anger Lydia was harboring had lessened only slightly. It simmered over the apprehension that crept through her as she stared up at the house. Even in the daylight hours it looked slightly unwelcoming with its harsh angles and main structural focus jutting obnoxiously into the blue sky.

Unwelcoming or not…it was _her_ house. She reminded herself of this, shoving the car door open and sliding out of the driver's seat. She left her belongings in the car and trudged through the snow that lay thick over the walkway to the front door. For now, they were probably better off where they were. If this ended badly, she wasn't sure she would want to stick around knowing what Beetlejuice was capable of when provoked. In some ways, he was far more dangerous trapped than he was free. Though his physical being was restricted by unseen boundaries, the same rules seemed to have no hold of his powers.

The house was unnaturally quiet, so much so that the clatter of her keys on the long entryway table was loud and offensive, causing her to wince. Lydia stood waiting, holding her breath. She wasn't sure what she was expecting – to be forced out by some unseen force, for all the paintings and hideous artwork to fall to the ground and shatter, chains to clang over the drone of disembodied voices.

There was nothing. The house remained silent.

Leaving her shoes in the entry, Lydia started up the stairs. In the recesses of her mind she saw the ineffectiveness of her actions. A person didn't sneak up on a ghost…which was why there was such a huge lack of evidence that there was life after death. Spots of shadowy light here and there, claims of voices from the grave, stories of haunting gone horribly wrong…

And they were just that – claims and stories. Because catching a ghost off guard wasn't something the living could do, no matter how much they convinced themselves otherwise. And catching Beetlejuice off guard would never be something Lydia would be capable of. He knew she was there now…she was certain of that.

And that certainty only intensified when she stepped into her room.

The curtains were drawn – both the sheer panels and the thicker velvet draping pulled over the French doors to block out the light. The blankets lay how she'd left them, rumpled in a wrinkled pile at the foot of the bed. Everything was as she'd left it.

Hesitantly, she looked up at her oval vanity mirror. She knew he wouldn't be there, but even knowing didn't stop the pang of disappointment from twisting her heart when she saw her darkened room reflected in the smooth surface.

Shrugging out of her jacket, Lydia tossed it over the bed as she approached the mirror.

"Well, well…"

Her footsteps stilled.

"Look who finally decided to come back home."

Fog filled the mirror, furling up the sides and spilling from the top down the center where it swirled like angry violet sand in water. Instead of shirking from it, she approached, drawing her shoulders back and strengthening her resolve with feelings of anger and injustice.

"No point in paying for heat and utilities with no one here," she replied mildly. She took up a spot at the edge of the bed, keeping a safe distance.

_Is there a safe distance from a poltergeist, _she mused silently. If there was, she obviously didn't know what it was.

"I supposed you haven't had much to do, have you? Or did Jane stop by for another-."

"Cut the bullshit," he interrupted, his voice a gravely mixture of impatience and irritation. "What the hell did you run for, Lyds? We got Jane out. We scared the shit out of her. Then you send me back to this shit and leave? What the hell? Isn't that what you wanted?"

Lydia shook her head. "Not like that."

Beetlejuice threw up his hands. "Then what?"

She kept shaking her head slowly back and forth, wrapping her arms around her middle as if to protect herself from him. "Not…that. Beej…you went…you went too far. She was freaked out when you made the walls bleed. She was freaked out when you made the lights-."

"We," he interrupted again, much more ruthlessly. "We…babes. Not just me. Don't sit there and act like you had nothing to do with the whole damn thing."

"That wasn't me," she breathed. The denial sounded weak, and whether it had been an outright denial to the knowledge she was battling with or to him…she couldn't tell. She stood and went to the mirror, glaring at him and placing her hands on the edge of the rough wooden surface. "That wasn't me at all. That was you."

"Us…that was _us_, Babes. Admit it."

"No!"

"Yes." He was grinning now, that maniacal, knowing grin that made her skin feel hot and tight. "You and me, Babes…we're the same." He pressed his palms to the mirror and stared intently at her. "Exactly…the same."

"We're not the same!" Lydia cried. "You enjoy this kind of shit! You _thrive _on it_! _I don't! You tapped into some sick, twisted part of me that I didn't even know _existed._ You found it, you used it and now you think that little shred of something makes me the same as you?" She spun away from the mirror, needing space. That rationality had started to slip and she couldn't let it. Not if she expected him to understand just how wrong he had been.

"What the fuck do you want from me here, Lyds?"

Laughing cynically she turned to him once more. "You're not even sorry, are you?"

"Why should I be? I showed you your true potential. You have any idea how many of you goddamned breathers walk around never figuring out your connection to the other world and using it? I showed you what everyone else ignores…and you _loved it._"

"I didn't love it!" she denied vehemently. "There was no part of me that loved that. In fact, I didn't feel a damned thing. Not even when you made me stab you! I stuck that knife in you…and I…didn't…care. How could anyone love feeling like that?"

Beetlejuice opened his mouth, then closed it and sagged against the frame of the mirror, rubbing his hands over his face and cursing softly. Seeing him defeated and tired deflated her need to fight completely. With it gone she suddenly felt very weak and very much as tired as he looked. She approached him slowly, sinking down on the vanity on the opposite side he occupied and leaning heavily against the glass.

"How could anyone enjoy not caring about stabbing someone they love?" she asked softly.

Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but not entirely comfortable either. A grating noise drew her attention and Lydia smiled slightly, watching the flame from the match Beetlejuice had lit cast a shadowed glow over his face as he brought it to the cigarette clamped between his teeth. After slowly inhaling the first drag, he looked at her.

"Want one?"

Lydia shook her head. "I'm good. Thanks."

He nodded and fell silent again. He fixed his hooded gaze somewhere between them. "I guess I wasn't really…thinking," he muttered finally.

Lydia released a soft laugh and shook her head. "Sounds familiar."

Beetlejuice exhaled a series of smoke rings, catching the loop of the last with his cigarette in a bored manner. "How so?"

"I never know how to think when it comes to you," she admitted in a whisper, pressing her forehead to the cool glass. His presence obscured her reflection, even more so when he moved close and mimicked her actions.

"Ain't that the beauty of it, though?"

She uttered a soft laugh. "Beej…how is this ever going to work? How are _we_ going to work? Can we even have a life together?"

"Course we can, Babes!" he assured her, though his voice lacked enough enthusiasm to cause her heart to snag slightly and drop. And he felt it. She knew he did. She heard his sigh and watched one of his hands lift to settle against the mirror. She lifted hers and did the same. It was cliché but there was an undeniable temptation to touch him when she hadn't for so long, even if a barrier between their worlds kept them apart.

"Whaddaya want, Lyds? You want a white picket fence, a buncha kids screamin' and cryin', all that cookie-cutter bullshit that most women want?"

"You know I don't."

They fell silent. The only sound in the room was her breath, fogging over the mirror where their hands lay almost touching. Lydia didn't know what to say anymore. She no longer knew where they stood.

"Lydia."

Had he not used her full name, had his gruff voice not been so full of haunting temptation…she may have never looked up. She may have just smiled and let her fingers curl slightly in an outward show of acknowledgement. But his voice…it drew her. She looked up, she met his gaze and though she might never knew where they stood, her heart suddenly knew that she belonged nowhere else but here, with him.

"I love you." He seemed almost resigned in his admission, tired even. She could hardly blame him. She was feeling much the same. "What more do you need?"

She closed her eyes against the sudden sting of tears. Strange…that she would be crying right now. He was probably going to hate her for it, see it as another human weakness that disgusted him. She couldn't seem to help it though. This entire situation was riddled with so much emotion that she was honestly surprised he hadn't started complaining about it.

Softly, carefully…she pieced together the only answer she could give him. "I want to know that the one person I that I love, the one person who I can relate to and the one person who understands me…is someone I can trust. You told me to…I did…and you used me."

"Let me out, Lydia."

She looked up, frowning. "Beetlejuice-."

"Just…let me out. I can't do this from the other side of the fucking mirror."

Lydia stood and took several steps away from the mirror. Wrapping her arms around herself she sighed and whispered, "Beetlejuice…."

He started to simmer out of view, his image becoming less solid and more ghostlike. She closed her eyes. "Beetlejuice."

Like the night he'd come to her thinking she was asleep, the smoke that was his spectral form slipped from the mirror. It spread over the floor and swept to her, swirling over her feet and around her before it crept up her legs, her hips, her torso. There was nothing sexual in its movement however. The smoke caressed her, it held her. It brushed her cheek and she leaned into it, biting her bottom lip to stop from crying out loud, her gratitude at being held by him once more, even in this form, overwhelming.

"Lyds…"

She opened her eyes and he was there, his face a breath away. The smoke against her face solidified and his hand now cradled her cheek gently. He rested his forehead against hers, letting the other hand fall to her hip. "I'm sorry."

She lifted her hand and placed it over his. "I'm sorry too."

"I screwed up, Lyds. I wasn't thinking and-."

Lydia clasped his face between her hands, shaking her head. The feel of stubble and over six hundred years of decayed moss swept under her fingertips, a mixture of roughness and smooth velvet that she reveled in. She pulled him down. She whispered his name, trying not to choke on the simple syllables. In turn, he devoured her lips with a groan of pained surrender.

Beetlejuice's hands swept down her back, cupping her backside and lifting her effortlessly. Lydia wrapped her legs around his waist. She kept her hands on his face, the feel of him an addiction that demanded satisfaction.

With more caution than she ever would have believed he possessed, he carried her to the bed and laid her down. He never took his mouth from hers, kissing her deeply and possessively. With every bold caress of his tongue there was an underlying softness that brought forth the sting of hot tears and a lonely desperation that threatened to overtake her.

In those moments where he loomed over her, pressing her body back further into the tangled mess of blankets and sheets, Lydia realized she was no longer kissing the ghost. She was kissing the man that had existed before it. The man who had lost his wife and child, who had survived only to die at the uncaring hands of a self-righteous mob.

Shamefully, she clung, desperate to know this part of him regardless of the pain.

Beetlejuice jerked away, ducking his head and cursing viciously. But Lydia held him fast, pulling him back. She refused to lose him. She pressed her fingers to the side of his face and drew his gaze back to hers, fearless of the hostile fury he fought back with. She could see clearly past it to the desperation and agony deep in his fevered eyes.

Pressing her lips to his, keeping her eyes open, she pleaded him silently even though he fought, remaining ridged and unresponsive under her touch.

Lydia shifted back, moving out from underneath him and sitting up. She kept her eyes on his as she gathered the hem of her sweatshirt in her hands and pealed it off. Next, she reached behind her and unclasped her bra, shrugging out of its lace confines and dropping it on the floor beside the bed. She took Beetlejuice's hand in hers, brought it to her chest. She pressed it to the valley between her breasts where her heart beat was strong and alive. Only then did she close her eyes, folding her hands over his.

_Please….please understand. I gave you a part of me…let me have this part of you…_

"Lydia…"

His voice was a raucous whisper. It said everything with nothing more than the simple utterance of her name. His free hand swept through her hair. Once more his mouth was moving over hers and kept nothing from her. He gave her everything – everything he was now, everything he had been then. She had it all.

Tears traced down her cheeks as he pressed her back and she gave herself over to him without much more than a soft final goodbye to what hollow shadow she had survived in before a ghost had come and ignited in her what vivaciousness and light had always been missing.

With confident hands, she pushed his jacket over his shoulders the moved to the buttons of his silk shirt, sliding them free one by one. The shirt joined the jacket. Before she could divest him of all of his clothing though, he moved from her mouth to her neck, worshiping her with hot, open mouthed kisses that trailed over her collar bone, down to where one hand still rested. He moved it and placed his lips there, lingering. For a moment, she thought he would say something. They were past words, however. Nothing could be said any longer.

He moved his hands to her hips and held them, then kissed his way down to her navel and further still until his cold breath swept over her intimately and she gasped, arching away from the bed, lifting her hips to the exquisite torture he could bring her.

And he did. His mouth closed over her, his tongue delving into her heat. Lydia's eyes rolled back. She gasped, gripping his hair, his shoulders, whatever her hands could gain purchase of as the world slipped out from underneath her. There was nothing more divine that she'd ever had the chance of knowing, nothing that hold a candle to the pleasure he could bring her with his mouth, with his body, with his presence.

She felt her control slipping and he was there, kissing her with a wild abandon, his arm sweeping around her as his hand twisted in her hair. He was there to silence her startled scream as he pressed into her, sending her pitching over the edge of sanity even as he brought her back with one slow thrust…then another, piecing her together and dragging her back into the maelstrom of intensity where he waited for her. He set a controlled pace that was maddening and yet…there was an erotic power to the act that was primitive and emotional. She was left feeling hot and fluid, her body molding to his as their tongues lazily twisted together, their teeth nipping teasingly every now and then. And when her release claimed her, it was sudden and unexpected, tearing a cry of release from her. Beetlejuice quickly followed, his low groan of surrender vibrating over the slick column of her neck, his hands gripping her hips and his body shuddering.

As Lydia held him, her body thrumming pleasantly, she could only think one thing – this was love. This was what people spoke of but rarely ever understood the depth of. She combed her fingers through his hair, smiled when his lips brushed just under her ear. He had said when they had first come together that if she gave into him…he would own her. His words had been just that though…words. Love told her the truth of the matter…and that truth was that she owned him.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** Hey all! Sorry for the length in updating. Things have been seriously hectic and stressful. I can't really guarantee that it was worth the wait either as this felt more like a filler chapter to me. Hope you enjoy it and Happy Holidays everyone! Stay safe and have fun!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make no profit off of the writing of this fic. Any mention of known composers is just that, a mention. Also, I know NOTHING about dark rooms and developing photo's so I winged the entire bit. Lol.

**Her**

"What was your wife like?"

Beeltlejuice lazily opened his eyes, his hands stilling over the slope of Lydia's shoulder. Her skin was bruised there, teeth marks evident among the colors bleeding over her flesh. He never thought he'd see the day where he would be content to lounge against a headboard with a naked woman between his legs laying against him and do absolutely nothing. It was so…human. Like Lydia – soft, pliant, her pale legs tangled in the blankets, her fingertips idly playing over his, a heartbeat he could feel beating strongly. She was something he would never be able to fully understand – listening to Cladue Debussy's Claire de Lune while drinking a glass of wine and developing photos instead of some moody, depressing music, carving pictures of webs and spiders in the corners of frosted window panes with black tipped nails while waiting for the coffee pot to fill, seeing beauty in something as drab as an everyday winter landscape…giving him chance after chance though he was damned sure he didn't deserve it in the slightest. Human…and the complete opposite of the woman he'd loved once before.

"She wasn't like you," he said after a while.

Lydia turned slightly in his embrace, easily tucking her head between his shoulder and chin as if it had always meant to fit right there. "What do you mean…not like me?"

A small grin softened his features. "Well…in all fairness, not a whole lot of people like you out there Lyds. But Rebecca was…she was what women were back then, I guess." He rested his head on hers, trying to remember a life that belonged to someone else. "She was one of those people who's nice to everyone – never said a bad thing even when I could tell she wanted to."

"You talk about her like she was just some random acquaintance," Lydia cautiously mused.

Beetlejuice shrugged. "It was six hundred years ago, Lyds."

"Hmm, I suppose." She stretched against him, her alabaster skin catching the light that filtered in through the windows and coasted in lazy winter abandon over the bed. "Coffee would be nice."

Comfortable with the fact that she was so easily letting the subject drop, Beetlejuice drew his fingertips lightly around the outer curve of her breast. "What would you do for it?"

Lydia tilted her head back. A smile touched the very corners of her lips. "Share?"

He didn't point out that ghosts had no reason to indulge in the consumption of the caffeinated brew - not the way the living seemed to. Instead he manipulated two steaming cups to the bedside table and reached for one to hand Lydia. Anything to take her mind off of a life that seemed cloudy at best to him.

As Lydia relaxed against him once more, drawing her knees up slightly and curling her hands around the mug, Beetlejuice frowned. That was the third time she'd dredged up memories he had to fight to remember. Granted, they weren't happy memories. He'd had a hell of a lot better in the six hundred years he'd been hanging around and terrorizing the living. But still…everything from _that_ life seemed to be nearly gone, or vague at best. Had he changed so much that a life with a woman he had loved to distraction had become nothing more than a slip of near nothingness in his subconscious? Or was it her…

He looked down at Lydia. She was sipping her coffee now, her other hand resting on his thigh, her nails lightly dragging up and down in a slow, constant motion. She really had barged her way into his life – first when she was nothing more than a sullen teenager, then as she grew into a witty, cynical young woman and now…the woman she was – breathtaking, confident, that wit even stronger. She'd easily broken down every emotional barrier he'd constructed and found a way into a heart that wasn't nearly as dead and cold as he had thought it was. Fuck if she hadn't taken him completely off guard. But…while fueling this insane, unstoppable love had she managed to wipe out any remembrance of what his life had been before he had died? Did the living even have that much power over the dead?

_Would Rebecca let Lydia have that much power over her memory?_

The last question came out of nowhere, so-much-so that it was almost as if someone else had spoken it. Beetlejuice's frown deepened. Rebecca was dead. Dead and moved on if her soul was as pure as Beetlejuice _knew_ it had been. She probably had no idea what he'd been up to, that he'd gone on some psychopathic killing spree after his death to avenge himself and her. She was where the pure souls belonged, blissfully unaware of the ugliness of the Afterlife.

"I was thinking about developing some of those pictures from the cemetery today. Shouldn't take too long but it's going to leave you with a whole lot of nothing to do."

He came back with a small "huh?" catching the tail end of what she was saying. "Oh…I'll just hang out here and go through your underwear drawer."

Pushing herself up, Lydia turned over and crawled over him to set her empty coffee cup on the table next to the one he'd forgotten. "Let me know if you find anything interesting," she murmured, brushing her nose against his with an impish grin.

He looked down between them suggestively, then back up and waggled his eyebrows. "Already have."

"Later."

Placing an annoying chaste kiss on his lips, she flounced off the bed and over to the dresser, pulling open drawers in search for something to wear. He was almost positive that she stood with her hip cocked just to tease him.

Feeling unsettlingly human, Beetlejuice reached for the bedside table where Lydia had tossed a battered pack of cigarettes, snagged himself, lit one and sat back to watch Lydia dress. "Why the sudden interest in her?" he asked after the first drag, stalling slightly before the word her. _My wife_ and _Rebecca_ had flitted through his mind but the thought of using either of them just didn't seem quite right.

Lydia glanced over her shoulder at him and shrugged before pulling a large woven sweater in shades of gray from a drawer and slipping it over her head. "I was just curious," she said.

"Just curious," he muttered.

"Yeah." She went to the foot of the bed where she'd thrown the bag she'd brought back home with her and started rummaging through it, pulling free a pair of black leggings and a slip of underwear that had him arching a brow in interest. "Call me crazy but I kind of like to know the person I'm sleeping with." Then she added with a grin, "Even if they are dead."  
"Clever," he muttered.

Lydia wriggled into her clothing, settling a long, soft gray sweatshirt over her leggings before leaning over him once more and giving him another one of those little pecks that were damn useless as far as he was concerned. She'd be doing him a lot more good if she just climbed back into bed and took everything off that she'd just put on.

"Try not to get too overloaded in panty paraphernalia," she said with a smirk before she strutted out of the room.

He never made a move towards her dresser. Instead he sat on her bed and frowned over their conversation, trying to remember a past that was better off dead.

* * *

Walking into her darkroom made Lydia feel as if she were walking into a long coveted haven. It was here she'd come to escape countless dinner parties thrown by Delia, to escape her father when he was off on one of his retail related tirades – she'd even used it to escape Barbra and Adam when their concern over her self-induced public exile started to wear on her. This place – the dark read haze that enveloped her in warmth and familiar chemical scents – this was hers.

She closed the door behind her with a fully relaxed smile and placed her camera gently on the counter before setting to work. Trays were pulled from shelves and filled with variously chemical ingredients that filled Lydia's nose with a gentle, familiar burn. It didn't take long to start the developing process and before three hours had passed, she had a line of pictures hanging from film hangers. She hummed along with Danny Elfman's "Snow Dance" as she thoughtlessly moved about her work, noticing nothing more than the movements of her hands from one step to the next. That was until she came upon a picture that stopped her movements completely.

She was washing it free of chemicals, thinking it looked so much like the last picture when she saw it – the discoloration beside a large headstone. Lydia leaned closer to the picture, her gaze narrowing. There was something there, something that caused a hint of a shiver to trace up her spine. Picking up a set of tongs laying beside the developing tray, the probed gently at the picture, wondering of the chemicals had somehow managed to distort an area of it. When that failed to rectify the issue, she pulled it from the tub and hung it from the wire.

Free from chemicals and at a different angle, the discoloration still remained. She knew what it was – had seen that form of haze before. It was the type of spectral signature Beetlejuice left behind in pictures. But this wasn't Beetlejuice. It was…lighter somehow.

"Someone else was there?" she mused, crossing her arms over her chest.

If someone else had been there, it wouldn't be all together impossible to believe. They had been in a cemetery. Her eyes drifted to the headstone and the chill in her blood intensified. She forgot, for several minutes, the simplicity in the act of breathing.

The headstone was new – the smooth granite sparkling under the harsh winter sunlight. The date was recent and the snow resting over the ground before it was slightly raised. It wasn't the date that mattered to her however. What mattered was the name, etched in simple block letters in the center of the marker – Rebecca.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N:** Alright! Had a baby, graduated college…and as little free time as I have now…I still had enough to get an update in! Hazaah! Thanks to all of you wonderful reviewers and to everyone following this fic. I'm so happy that you're enjoying it and as we near the end, I only hope that I can continue to keep you entertained, on the edges of your seats and not thinking "wow, her brain went poof." Because I tell you what…since baby doesn't like caffeine…it's pretty much "poof" at all times. So here ya go! Love to all! OH! Also, that wasn't Rebecca's headstone. She's a ghost. She can create things. She made a headstone as a message to Lydia to catch her attention. So hope that sets things straight. And thanks Mikell for the beta!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

**The Path Chosen**

Lydia ran from the house as if the devil was chasing her out, his acidic breath licking eagerly at her heels. She stopped only long enough to snatch her purse and coat from the bench along the hallway wall and yell out an excuse to Beetlejuice about needing developing chemicals. Then she was out the door, slamming it hard enough to set the decorative pane rattling. Only briefly did she entertain the thought of making less hasty exits from her home before sliding behind the wheel of her car.

It stalled once, sputtering weakly. Hissing an ugly curse, Lydia twisted the key in the ignition once more, pressing her foot down on the gas when it started to choke and bringing it back to life with a pitiful whine.

She slumped back in her seat and tried to focus on the cold instead of the message a dead woman was attempting to send her. Or she at least assumed the message was for her. She'd been the one taking the pictures, after all. But what if Rebecca had expected her to show the developed film to Beetlejuice? How could she even have known Lydia would develop them any time in the near future?

Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose and dropped her head back against the headrest. Her mind was going a mile-a-minute, one question following the prior in rapid succession. She had not one answer for any of them.

The car stopped whining and she threw it into gear. It didn't take more than a few minutes to drive down the hill to the cemetery. It took even less time to walk from the car to the wrought iron archway and once she was there, she was slightly stupefied that she'd managed her trip that quickly. Now that she was there however, she had no idea what to do. With Beetlejuice, it was easy – call his name three times and there he was. She'd practically stumbled over Adam and Barbara. How could she even begin to call out a ghost she had only assumed was trying to communicate with her?

Uncertainly, she started making her way through the markers. Around her, the colors were crisp and breathtaking in their beauty. The sun struck the snow and sent it shimmering in a nearly-blinding manner. Fall colored leaves still clung here and there and, in stark contrast, the boughs of the surrounding evergreens drooped from the thick snow packed on their branches. Details like these normally pleased her and spoke to the artist within but today, she took no joy in the ambiance of her surroundings. Not even the thoughtfully crafted headstones with their touching epitaphs caught her interest. She was only interested in one, though something told her she wouldn't be finding it.

"Lydia-."

She whirled and her breath caught in her throat. Rebecca was...beautiful. She was porcelain and lace – her blond hair piled loosely on her head, her brown eyes so impossibly dark that Lydia would have doubted her spiritual status had it not been for the fact that she could see the landscape through her. She was a woman Lydia immediately classified as "classic beauty" and it startled her. She had been expecting something else, someone more like-.

"You?" Rebecca said with a small tilt of her full lips.

"Excuse me?"

"You were expecting someone more like you."

"I…no…I mean-," Lydia sputtered, once again taken aback.

Rebecca waved her hand in a slightly dismissive gesture. "He was a different person when he loved me."

For some reason, the statement rankled. Shoulders stiffening, she crossed her arms over her chest and regarded the other woman as an enemy. "What do you want?"

"Not at all what you're thinking."

She almost asked 'what am I thinking' when she quickly remembered that Rebecca already knew. That knowledge gave her a squirming feeling deep in the pit of her stomach and Lydia wrapped her arms more tightly around herself in a vain effort to quell it.

The ghost moved forward – not hovering but taking slow, almost lazy steps that gave the illusion that she was. She stopped beside a headstone a few feet away, leaving a comfortable amount of space between them.

"Who he is now…that is not the man I knew."

"So what?" Lydia bit out. "You're here to change him?"

Rebecca snorted softly – disdainfully. "Hardly." She touched a hand to the granite marker and a thin layer of frost spread over the surface. "I m actually here for you, Lydia."

"For me?" She stepped back, her hand going to her throat and her fingers brushing over where her pulse beat frantically.

"Not _for_ you. Not like that."

"What then?" Lydia snapped, growing impatient with Rebecca's vague comments.

"A warning." Rebecca sighed and turned to face Lydia fully. Her dark eyes held a resigned sadness that strengthened the squirming in her stomach. "The path you have chosen is not an easy one, though it was one of many set for you."

"One of many?"

"Yes. Fate is not so fickle as to create one path for a person to follow. She creates many. Our lives are more ours to control than hers. She provides everyone with the opportunity to have a different ending to their story."

Lydia frowned. "I chose the wrong one."

"There is no wrong one, Lydia. You simply picked the one that is more…complicated."

"And the easier path was to what? Stay in Hartford? Live alone in my apartment and continue alienating myself to the point that I would have probably died without anyone even knowing?" It was a bit extreme but she was talking to a ghost about her life choices. The situation provoked a sense of severity that invited melodrama.

"You could have taken the offer to move to New York and show your work in the studio they offered you. Instead, you returned here. You returned to him. And he…John…he could have walked the path to survival. Instead, he chose to drown his sorrows in alcohol and turn his pain into hatred. Fate provided him with the opportunity to have a different ending. You both chose the much more complex path."

Lydia rolled her eyes, once again feeling defensive for both herself and Beetlejuice and more than slightly irritated that the woman would know secrets she'd kept to herself. "So sorry Beetlejuice and I made things inconvenient for Fate," she muttered, refusing to use the name Rebecca had provided him with.

"I apologize. I did not mean to anger you."

"Well, you are. You're talking in annoying circles when I just wish you'd get to the point already. Why are you here? What are you warning me about?"

Rebecca motioned to a bench shaped marker, wandering over to it and sinking down. Following her, Lydia did the same, wincing as the cold bit into her back side.  
"You face a very difficult future. I cannot say much but…I can tell you that what comes next…is not easy at all. There is evil you must face…evil that would see both you…and him dead. To survive it, you must be willing to give in to what you fear. There will be no penalties…not this time. It's important that you know this. There is an understanding that certain measures must be taken to allow Fate to work its course."

"Meaning-?"

"Meaning that Juno will not be hovering. She is stepping back."

She fell silent and Lydia waited, expecting more. When Rebecca didn't continue, she looked at the ghost incredulously. "Seriously? That's it?"

"I wish I could tell you more. I wish I could tell you everything. But I am only permitted so much."

Lydia started to nod, then shook her head, a humorless laugh slipping past her cold lips. "That…is not helpful at all."

"I can tell you…that you made the right choice. The path you chose was the one meant for you…for your heart." Rebecca gazed out over the cemetery. "The most difficult thing about making the right choice however…is when it hurts everyone we love. There is no way around what fate has planned for you now that you have chosen this path. There is nothing that will make your journey easy or the choices you have to make simple."

"Well, when then?" Lydia was starting to feel dread seep into the irritation like some horrible kind of infestation. "If you can't tell me what it is at least tell me when. When am I supposed to make these decisions?"

"When the time comes…you will know it." Rebecca turned, her expression so infinitely poignant that Lydia could feel the answering sting of tears. "You will know what to do…and you will know not to do it."

"How will I know not to do it?" Lydia found herself asking.

"Because." Her reply was soft – as soft as the sad smile that touched the very corners of her cracked lips. "You love him that much."

With a bite of cold that caused Lydia to flinch, Rebecca was gone, leaving the dark haired woman alone in the cemetery, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. She looked back to the house that sat so obtrusively on the top of the hill overlooking the small town of Winter River. She could walk away from it…wander down one of those "other" paths instead of staying true to this one, wherever the hell it went. She could go back to Hartford, she could accept the offer to move to New York, to make her place in the artistic community. She could choose uncomplicated. But she would be giving up the one chance she would ever have at love. And as much as it still stunned her, she did love Beetlejuice. She loved every grimy, lewd, spectral bit of him.

They had both chosen to walk a path as complex as they were. It only made sense that they would continue down those paths together.

"And here I thought having a ghost for a lover was the complicated part," she mused, then turned and made her way back to her car.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N:** Update! Haha! Somewhere between the frightening lack of coffee, the interrupted sleep and the needs of two pretty high-maintenance little girlies I managed one! We're closing in on the end here with a few more cliffhangers in sight. Sorry guys! I like em, I use em…they keep you comin' back ;) Much love to all of my reviewers and if I missed replying to you I'm sorry. I tried to keep track of who I had responded to and all that but I lost track and well…yeah. I still love you all though! Also, the beta on this was me so forgive me if I missed a few things here and there. I kind of polished this up while having a glass of wine so it might not be my best work.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

**Chapter Eighteen**

Her parent's house had always been one that stood out amongst the white-washed two stories that speckled the town with their decorative gates and quaint gnome-ridden gardens. Often times it reminded Lydia of a stately warden at an all women's prison facility – watching over the oppressed with her nose lifted haughtily to the sky, her look clearly saying, "I'm better than you." She had a hard time picturing the Maitland's living in the large home, even before her parents had gutted it and turned it into the dominant monstrosity that took over the hillside.

Now, parked in the driveway in the finger drifts that reached across the gravel, she stared up at the multi-story home and thought it looked…threatening. She may have had her jaded opinion of the house but she'd never been afraid of it. Not even the day she looked up and caught a glimpse of the ghosts in the attic.

She once again entertained the thought of throwing the car in reverse and driving to Hartford without even the slightest glance backwards. If there was evil here that wanted to see her dead, it would have a hard time doing so if it couldn't find her. And if it couldn't find her, maybe it would leave Beetlejuice alone. She could save them both. But it would cost her him.

With a sigh, she dropped her head to the steering wheel. "I'm insane."

The statement, true as it may have been, did not stop her from getting out of the car and walking up to the house.

"I'm back," she called out as she walked through the front door. She dropped her keys and purse on the hallway table and listened for any sound that would let her know Beetlejuice was there. She heard nothing. The house was still and deathly quiet.

"Beej?"

She went still and listened. Nothing. Her blood suddenly ran cold. Each appendage went numb, a clammy feeling slithering over her skin.

_There is an evil that would see both you and him dead._

"Beetleju-."

Her slightly hysterical voice was cut off when he appeared behind her, his arms circling her waist. "Easy there, Babes."

Lydia went limp, the relief that he was still there overwhelming. "Jesus, Beej," she muttered weakly, turning in his embrace and sagging against him.

"There's two names I've never heard thrown together," he said with a cackle.

She said nothing in return to the comment, pressing her face against the course material of his ridiculous stripped jacket. It didn't carry its usual stench. Or maybe she'd just gotten used to his smell.

"Aw, what's the matter, Lyds? Ya miss me?" His hands started to wander down her back and to her hips. He pressed his against her suggestively. "It has been more than an hour. Guess we should get reacquainted a bit, huh?"

"Beej, I'm really not up for this right now."

"Can't say the same," he laughed.

"No, really Beej-."

"No, really Lyds," he mimicked, "can't think of anything you could say to stop me now. How did you put it…got a taste, want some more was it?"

She could hear the lecherous grin in his voice and as much as she wanted to give in, as much as her body screamed at her to do so not only for her own enjoyment but also in hopes of getting Rebecca's voice out of her head, her mind was in complete disagreement. "I just had a little talk with your wife," she said.

"Yeah…that'll do it." He backed off immediately, frowning down at her. "What the hell kind of shit joke is that?"

"It's not a joke." She added softly, "I wish it was" before turning and making her way into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. She hadn't even had any today. She'd been too enthralled with her work to think about how great the scorch of coffee down her throat would feel.

Beetlejuice drifted after her. "You gonna tell me more or just leave it at that?"

"Oh, don't worry. I'm going to. I just want to get some-." She stopped upon seeing the full pot waiting for her and the cup already sitting at the table, steam rising from it.

"There…now talk."

She plopped down into one of the chairs, wrapped her hands around the coffee cup and stared down at the dark liquid. "She sent me a message in one of my pictures," she started, keeping her gaze down. Something in her wouldn't let her watch Beetlejuice while she talked about his wife. The situation was complicated enough. She didn't need to set herself up for heartache by finding out whether he still harbored feelings for his lost love simply from a facial expression.

"I hardly noticed it. I was developing the pictures from when we took a walk in the cemetery the other day and there was a headstone with her name on it. Nothing else…just her name. I didn't know if it was meant for me to see or for…" she swallowed, "for you."

He took up a spot across from her, snapping a bottle of whiskey to the table. He tipped the bottle over her mug, splashing some of the amber liquid into it before taking a long swig straight from the bottle. It wasn't even noon yet but she saw no point in arguing this fact. The chill from outside and her encounter with the dead woman still clung to her. She was all too happy to wash it away.

She lifted the coffee to her lips and sipped, relishing the burn of heat and alcohol as it washed over her tongue. "The part of me that was worried that the message was for you didn't want you to know about it so I just…went to the cemetery looking for her to find out what she wanted."

"And?"

She looked up, startled by the note of boredom in his voice. That was the last thing she was expecting to hear. "It…doesn't bother you that she was here?" she asked before she could stop herself.

He shrugged, taking a pull from the bottle. "Why would it?"

"I don't…know." Lydia frowned. "Because she's your wife maybe?"

"_Was_ my wife," he corrected. "And trust me, that's a big 'ol was. Ain't no love lost between me and Becks." He snapped a lit cigarette into his fingers as he spoke. An image of him standing in the living room holding one and explaining to anyone who would listen about only doing one show a night flashed in her mind.

"I went lookin' for her after takin' care of that business with the…well, the entire town really. Had a hell of a time doing it, too. She wasn't just wanderin' around or sittin' in the waiting room. She was somewhere else I couldn't get to because of my…oh, what did she call it…my 'blackened soul.' Once I got in touch with the right people I had to fight to convince 'em to let me see her."

"Wow, pretty heartless in the afterlife, aren't they?" Lydia muttered. "They wouldn't even let you see your own wife?"

"Sure they would." His lips turned up in a humorless smirk. "She just didn't want to see me. The whole killin' off people didn't sit well with pure, pious Rebecca. All that 'love of my life' crap really meant 'love you until you go psycho then want nothing to do with you.' Hell, she couldn't even bring herself to look at me and when she did-." He stopped, staring at the bottle of liquor long and hard. "Rich, dainty debutant meets run down, disease riddled old man," he muttered, lifting the bottle to his dry lips.

Any words Lydia had were lodged firmly in her throat, forming an uncomfortable knot that she couldn't wash down. It was no wonder Beetlejuice was such a bitter, malicious poltergeist. He had no reason _not _to be. He'd lost his wife and unborn child, had been unjustly killed by those who couldn't understand his suffering and then had searched for his lost love only to find that she couldn't stomach what he had become. There had been no shred of justice for the man he had been and the ghost he now was.

The pity she knew he would not want welled up within her and she quickly shoved it aside. Moving out of her chair, she went to him, sitting on the table top and sliding over until her legs were on either side of him.

"Shifty, maniacal poltergeist meets jaded, loner female. Wild, ravenous sex ensues," she murmured, leaning forward.

He glanced up, grinning. "That movie sounds more my style."

"Probably has better reviews too."

"No doubt." He set the bottle aside and ran his hands slowly up her thighs until they rested on her hips. "So what did 'ol Becks have to say, huh? Trying to steal me from your unyielding, claw-like grip?"

The facts were so off the assumption that she nearly choked on her laughter. "Not even remotely close. No offense."

"None taken."

"She wanted to warn me. Apparently there's some big, bad evil out there that wants you and I dead. And I have these choices that Fate wants me to make."

"Ah Fate…a fickle bitch, that one." He shifted back in his chair and lazily started stroking the inside of her thighs in the most distracting possible way. "So, whaddaya wanna do then?"

Lydia shrugged, then slid into his lap, wrapping her arms lazily around his neck. "Think about that when the time comes. For now…I've got other…_nasty…_ideas."

Beetlejuice pulled her down and brushed his lips over hers. The scent of whiskey and caramel macchiato hit her all at once and carnal infatuation took over. "Like making your clothes disappear?"

"That's a start," she breathed before slanting her mouth over his and giving herself over to the darkness where their lust thrived unfulfilled.

* * *

Hours later, after the sun had already sank into the horizon and the moon now rose full and hauntingly blue, Lydia wandered out of the kitchen with a phone book in her hand trying to remember which restaurants were open past eleven and which one's actually delivered. There was always the old fall back – pizza – which was probably what they would end up having but she was unwilling to give up the search just yet. Szechwan sounded delicious right now. So did Chinese. Or anything loaded with enough MSG to give her a stroke really. The pizza could probably go with it. She was starving after spending all morning, afternoon and most of the evening lost to the passionate onslaught of a poltergeist that wouldn't be appeased until he's pushed her into an orgasmic coma.

"Wonder if that even exists," she muttered, stopping at the foot of the steps. "Hey Beej…think you could use your powers to make one of these places stay open late and deliver?"

He appeared at the top landing, showered and shirtless, rubbing his wayward hair dry with a towel. "Sure, babes." He started down the steps, smiling knowingly. "Work up an appetite?"

"I think I'm beyond something as simple as an appetite. Lucky you, being all dead and not having to eat in order to sustain yourself," she quipped dryly.

His only response was a dry chuckle. "So what are you in the mood for?"

"Everything." She glanced up at him as he stopped beside her. "I can't remember which places are open late. Or if any of these places are even in business still. It's an old phone book."

"Hey, whatever my Lyd's wants, she gets. Just name it and it shall be done."

He started to move past her and suddenly lurched to the right, barely managing to get a hold of the door frame before toppling over.

Lydia smirked. "Looks like I'm not the only one worn out."

"Lyds…I don't-." He dropped his hand and sagged against the door frame, his back to her and his shoulder hunched. The towel dropped to the ground as one hand went to his stomach and the other to his forehead.

"Beej?"

He struggled to turn, never pushing away from the frame. His hollow eyes stared at her, bright and fevered. Suddenly…Lydia knew blinding, panicked fear. She dropped the phone book and cried out, rushing to him as he crumpled to the ground. "Beej…what's happening?"

"Don't….know…" he croaked. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, a low sound of pain rumbling from his throat.

Lydia grabbed at him. She didn't know what to do. She knew only consuming, merciless fear.

"Beetlejuice…"

She tried to breath past the panic. Hot tears blurred her vision. They'd mocked the evil earlier – put off dealing with it to distract each other with sex. She had no doubt that it was here now. She had no doubt that she was watching the man she loved die.

"Who's doing this?" she managed an agonized whisper.

"That bitch…came back…" he managed.

She immediately thought of Rebecca. It was her who was causing this. The irrational part of her feminine brain thought she'd come back to reclaim what was hers though the rational part argued fiercely. "Who came back?"

"Jane….fuck-."

"Jane?" Lydia frowned.

"Guess we didn't….scare her…enough-."

Jane…she had forgotten about Jane. Lydia jumped up and ran do the front door, yanking it open. The chill of the winter night air slapped her in the face as it howled past her, the low hum of droning voices accompanying its intrusion into her home. She wanted to be sick at the sight that greeted her. Forming a half circle at the very base of the hill the house had been built upon was a group of people, each holding candles in one hand and bibles in the other. Jane stood in the middle beside a priest, the glow of the candle in her hand illuminating the hungry, sadistic grin plastered across her tight face.

The words the group spoke were indecipherable but she didn't need to know what they were saying to understand the implication. They were attempting to exorcise Beetlejuice.

Slamming the door shut, Lydia rushed back to Beetlejuice and sank down beside him, grabbing his cold hand between hers and pressing it to her lips. "We have to stop them."

He managed the tiniest of smiles. "Babes…can't. ..I got…nothin'-."

"You have me," she returned fiercely.

_Tell him to possess you._

The intrusion of another voice was a shock, jolting her out of the helpless despair pulling at her. She looked wildly around, trying to find the source of it. It had sounded like Rebecca and yet, the other woman was nowhere to be seen.

_You must. Tell him to possess you._

Lydia's hand's stilled. Her breath all together stopped.

_Do it…it's your only chance to save him. They are exorcizing a demon from a dwelling, _not_ a person. If he were to possess you, they wouldn't be able to touch him. _

Fear - deep and overwhelming - rose up within her like a quick tide, adding to the existing terror that had been festering away at her insides. For one horrifying moment, all she could do was stare down at Beetlejuice, at his haggard expression, at the way his skin pulled more and more tightly around his bones, his strength draining from him.

_You don't have much time…_


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N:** Okay, you're all going to kill me…but it was either cut the chapter in half and end on a (cringes) cliffhanger…or take forever updating. I had a lot of this written out before Mady was born so I figured might as well give you guys SOMETHING to hold off a mutiny. So here ya be! An update again! Hopefully…hopefully…I'll have something up soon but in all honesty guys…all I want to do right now is take a nap. Lol. Much love to you all! And a big thanks to Melody Winters for her beta!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make no profit off of the writing of this fic.

**Chapter 19**

"Beetlejuice," she blurted out, "Possess me."

Lifeless eyes stared up at her, dark in a way she'd never seen before, in a way she never wanted to see again. They were the eyes of a highly powerful being…dying.

"Babes," he rasped, forcing the simple syllable from his dry throat.

"Do it," she demanded. Her voice wavered as terror pulsed thickly in her veins. She clutched his face between her hands, begging him without words to see past her fear. Hot tears traced her pale cheeks, fell and splattered noiselessly against his skin. "Please," she whispered.

"Lyds…I can't-."

"Yes!" She cried, holding him more tightly. She could feel him slipping away. The hand gripping her wrist now held it weakly, as if the ragged edge of the bone was the only thing holding it in place. "You can. I'm letting you. Please…please, Beej. You have to-."

His hand tightened ever-so-slightly and suddenly, he looked just as frightened as she was. It unsettled her, seeing him like this – knowing that a poltergeist who effortlessly terrorized the living could feel fear. "Lydia-."

"You don't have a decent argument," she said through clenched teeth. Anger was rising through the fear to fuel her. "If the only thing you can think of to argue with is my name, you're not going to win. _Now do it!"_ She lowered her forehead to his, her eyelids drifting shut. She pleaded once more, her voice a mere whisper. "Please…I love you too much to lose you. Just…do it."

The silence dragged on. She could hear their voices, low and menacing, creeping through the weak walls of the old house, stealing away the one thing in her life that made sense, regardless of how twisted it would seem to a normal human being. He was her life and as complicated as it was, there was a sweet simplicity to loving him and having his love in return. _They_ were trying to take it, trying to take him away…and she couldn't let them.

"Beetlejuice…."

His hand abruptly released her wrist and wrapped around her neck with startling ferocity. Her eyes flew open and a gasp left her – one of mingled fear and respite. She could see the decision in the sickly darkness.

"Don't hurt me," she whispered.

He feebly shook his head as his fingers curled further around her neck, the sharp nails biting into her skin. She wouldn't flinch though. She kept her gaze on his, kept her hold on him and allowed herself trust the unknown.

"Never," he promised.

With that one word, she suddenly felt herself pitch forward, though she never moved. A strange feeling, one of dizzying excitement laced with fear and a sense of drunken power slithered hungrily though her insides. It licked at her blood, compelling it into a steady boiling rage directed at the group of self-righteous interlopers sprawled over the yard.

_Buncha morons….thinkin' they could fuck with me! I'm the Ghost with the Most. They're gonna learn that little fact pretty damn quick._

"Beetlejuice," she murmured uncertainly, still staring down at his prone form. Had he spoken the words out loud? She'd heard them with such painful clarity and yet…he was so still. She reached out, traced her fingers over his chest. As she watched her hand moving so carefully over the worn fabric of his jacket, she felt as if she were watching from several feet above where she sat. Everything she did felt as if she were only half responsible for her own actions.

_Right here, Babes. Here…and ready to scare the living hell out of every single bitch out there._

"You're…" She lifted a hand to her chest, the movement feeling lethargic. "Are you-?"

She closed her eyes and winced, trying to grasp at something familiar and safe. But nothing was familiar…and anything safe had stopped existing the second she'd willingly let him in.

_Almost, Babes. Takin' my time. Those bastards kinda wiped me out a bit. But I'll get it back. Always do. Then you and me…we're gonna have us some fun!_

The way he hissed the word fun, the pure hostility in it, caused a shiver of thirsty anticipation to travel slowly over her spine.

"Your body…" she muttered, the words thick and slurred. Already his ghostly form was beginning to fade into nothingness.

_It'll be fine. We're golden now. You ready for this?_

"I don't know…"

_Lydia…trust me. _

She held her breath, held on to what remained of her. And then…released the breath and let go, slipping back into darkness. Hands were there to catch her as the darkness filled her mind, as she lost who she was in the obscurity of her subconscious. They held her. A tender, low voice made promises filled with love - filled with retribution.

_Let go, Lydia…let me in. All the way in. _

_ I'm scared…_

_ Naw. My Babes? Scared by all this paranormal possession shit? You love it. _

She did…and that's what scared her.

_No one dies. But we're gonna make them pay. _

_ Yes._ She nodded as she swayed back and forth in the darkness of her foyer, her arms hanging at her sides, her eyes closed, a sinister smile slowly curling her dark lips. Distant thunder rumbled. She vaguely remembered that it was the middle of winter in Connecticut…and that thunder never came in the middle of winter. Unless…provoked by the dead.

_Come on, Lyds. Ya gotta let go if I'm gonna do this._

_ ….I know….Beej._

_ I love you, Lydia. So let…go._

Her head rolled back and canted at an odd angle. Large eyes opened slowly to reveal thin slits of glowing, ethereal green, her lips peeled away from sharp, glistening teeth and an inhuman screech, far more dead than alive and filled with triumph, ripped from her throat. The sound tapered off into laughter, low and sinister - a bone-chilling mixture of feminine vocals and pure poltergeist insanity.

Lydia's eyes opened further, her features twisting into a mask of maniacal cruelty. She pushed herself up from the floor, her movements disjointed and awkward, then lifted her hands and looked them over. When she spoke, it was in a voice that was no longer hers.

"And yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil," hissed the macabre blend of life and death, "For I _am _that fucking evil. _It's show time_…."

* * *

There was the ultimate, undeniable erotic pleasure of being inside Lydia Deetz…and then…there was the sinfully dangerous, drugging pleasure of being _inside_ Lydia Deetz, a woman whose heart beat for him, who trusted him enough to let him violate her being in the most personal of ways. Beetlejuice took his time working into her system, fully enjoying the high of having her like this. It was sick and probably wrong on several different levels, especially when there was a fucking mob outside bent on his exorcism. He'd get to them later. Right now…he was drowning in the euphoric taste of Lydia.

He'd pulled her into the dark recesses of her inner being, tucked her carefully away where she would be safe and would be unable to remember much of what was about to happen. Women like Lydia, even if they had seen all the paranormal shit most people didn't see….they didn't see what he could do. And _she_ certainly didn't need to see just how much power she'd given him with her love. It was enough to kill every last one of them before they even realized that their lives were on the line. He wouldn't…but knowing he _could_ was enough of an adrenaline high to think about every warped, mouth-watering possibility. Hell, he could hang them from trees by _each other's _insides. Now that would be interesting!

Chuckling darkly at each new and equally horrific idea, he moved for the kitchen, adjusting to Lydia's height, the shape of her body…and a hell of a shape it was too.

_Course….I already knew that._

He stopped in front of the refrigerator and pulled the door open, scanning the contents for something to eat or drink. Something to _taste. _Being dead had its many disadvantages – one of the main one's being the inability to taste anything. As a ghost there wasn't really a need to sustain one's self. Those who did, did so mainly to entertain the idea of what it would be like to live again. Or they did it to hang onto what shred of humanity remained. Some, like him, simply did it out of boredom. But just because he did it out of boredom didn't mean that he didn't miss it. And he _missed it. _

There were a few cans of some obscure brew tucked back in the far corner on the bottom shelf. No doubt something left over from when Charles was still in residence. Beetlejuice reached for one, watching the perfectly manicured hand with a wry grin. He felt so alive - so much like himself that it was almost easy to forget he was inhibiting Lydia's body now. She'd given him so much of her…so much that there was hardly any part of her left. Any other ghost would have taken advantage of that fact and run with the opportunity. Any other person and he may have done just that. But this was Lydia. He loved her like he'd loved no other and he would not make the mistake of running wild with what she'd given him again.

"Just gonna have to figure out another way to get my point across," he muttered as he popped the cap and moved to the window over the sink.

The priest, Jane and her cronies were standing in a semi-circle at the bottom of the hill, every self-righteous soul hunched over what he could only assume were bibles, clutched tightly in their pale-knuckled grips.

"Fuckin' armatures," he muttered, scowling in irritation. Armatures maybe…but they'd caught him unaware and had nearly done him in. He lifted a hand and rubbed at his chest, still able to feel the scalding burn of the exorcism.

_The burn…._

A sinister grin pulled at the corners of his mouth. He lifted the beer and tilted his head back, draining the contents before tossing the empty can into the sink. The aluminum clatter accompanied his low chuckle.

"Bet it's cold out there," he muttered, his vocals blending with Lydia's. "What kind of host would I be if I just let 'em freeze out there? Better crank up the _heat._"

With the last word a wall of fire erupted behind the crowd, sending them all either staggering or falling forward with startled cries. The fire quickly spread, circling the house and entrapping the unwelcome guests. For dramatic flair, he engulfed the house in flames as well, giving them the impression that it had gone up in the blaze while making sure there wasn't so much as a scorch mark on the fabricated siding.

"Nothin' more fun than walkin' through fire to scare the shit out of a buncha lame-ass religious folks," he cackled, heading for the front door to properly welcome Jane and her wayward followers. It was a pity really…they probably hadn't signed on for a pissed off poltergeist who had every intention of stopping just shy of killing them. Their bad decision however…was not his problem.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N:** OMG guys…all I can say is that I am really, truly sorry this took so long to get out. I've had my hands full with two kids who tag-team me and night and make sure that my me-time is very short lived. On top of that I got a management position that takes up a huge amount of time. Luckily I've been able to get away every now and then and spent the last few weeks piecing this together. I'm so so freakin' sorry it took so long. It wasn't my intention to ever make it seem like I had given up on this fic. I haven't. Not by a long shot. Life just kinda got in the way. Thanks to everyone who stuck with me this far. I appreciate every review that I get more than I can say. Your words fuel me and really keep me going more than you guys know. Thank you all so much. And a big thank you to Mikell and Mel for being my awesome beta's! Thanks ladies!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

**Chapter Twenty**

Having an artist for a lover had its upsides. But like all relationships, it also had its downsides. Like when that damned artist eye of theirs stopped you in your vengeful tracks and forced you to grudgingly appreciate things you could have honestly cared less about before they came along.

"Damn it, Lyds," he muttered with a slight upturn of the lips.

He allowed her control for the moment. No…that wasn't entirely true. She _took_ her moment while he retreated in awe of just how powerful her sense of creativity was.

A dainty hand lifted to the flames, red lacquered nails dancing through the flickering tips of the inferno. The polish took on a molten appearance, looking as if it were melting. She dropped her hand and looked up at the stars splattering the midnight sky.

_They always seem so much brighter when it gets cold like this._

"That's great, Babes," he muttered, his sarcasm-laced voice conflicting with the begrudging grin he could feel turning up the corners of her lips. "Mind if I get back to scarin' the shit outta some crazy religious folks here?"

Her faint chuckle followed her back into the far corners of her subconscious. Rolling his shoulders and firmly slipping back into the driver's seat, Beetlejuice turned to the stairs. His grin was no longer a dry tild of the lips but a sadistic twist. His eyes glowed, the dull green overtaking the liquid brown.

He flicked the fire aside as if it were nothing more than a flimsy, gossamer curtain, leaving a narrow path open to the group of panicked humans. The ones who were nearly hysterical, on their knees with their hands clasped tightly together and sobbing made him want to laugh. He stopped instead and crossed his arms over his chest. Well…her chest. Which got in the way slightly. He readjusted his arms with a disgruntled sigh and refocused.

"Oh relax. It's not like I'm gonna kill ya. Ya sure as shit ain't gonna be comin' back, but it won't be because you're dead." He paused, then tacked on a quick "unfortunately" that earned him a mental jab from Lydia.

The crowd paid no attention to him, too lost to their own terror to realize that the enemy had come to play. The priest made worthless attempts to calm the hysteria which only seemed to worsen the situation. There was one missing however.

"Oh Janey," Beetlejuice sang in a horrible off key twist of vocals. "Where are you, ya money hungry whore?"

He scanned the mob, eyes narrowed and when he found her, he couldn't help making a sound that hovered somewhere between disgust and begrudging admiration.

She stood off to the side, eyes closed, hands clutching a beaded rosary that hung over her pale knuckles. Her thin lips moved and he was willing to bet his insanity that she was praying.

"Persistent little bitch, aint she?" he mused, then shrugged. Her attempts meant nothing now. She was an annoyance. "Time to cut her off."

A waggle of the fingertips and another wall of fire sprang up, trapping Jane and removing her from the steadily mounting frenzy. He had every intention of snapping himself behind her when Lydia's dry voice interrupted him.

_How are you going to manage that with _my_ body?_

"Buzz kill. So much for a dramatic entrance."

Though he still could be plenty dramatic. He could literally walk through the fire right in front of her. She was good and panicky, just the way he liked them.

He started forward. He took little joy in watching the crowd now, even though one had obviously fainted. The priest knelt beside her, making pathetic attempts to revive her. Others watched him, cowered against each other. A handful held onto the ones sobbing, their eyes filled with fearful defiance. They could stand and watch for all he cared. He wanted the big prize. But then again…

He stopped and stood perfectly still, eyes fixed straight ahead, waiting. He could sense their fear, their horrified anticipation, and he reveled in the way it spiked with every apprehensive minute that passed. Sometimes the most terrifying thing, as he well knew from personal experience, was waiting. And then…just as the waiting started to become unbearable-.

He craned his neck at an impossible angle to regard them, vertebras popping loudly. A vicious grin pulled full lips over white teeth and he emitted a feral, inhuman hiss. Their reactions were immediate – shrill screeches, masculine cries of alarm. One idiot ran straight into the fire in a pathetic attempt to escape.

_Beetlejuice-._

"Relax," he muttered. "They're fine. Fire free and lesson learned. But maybe a few more-."

_Beetleju-!_

"Yeesh! Nevermind! Now…where was I-."

He started for Jane again. Walking through the flames of her enclosure gave him nothing more than an annoying tickle and then he was staring into the glaring face Jane Butterfield who was still praying fervently, her voice clear and lacking even the slightest waver.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

Whatever high he'd been riding he quickly came down from. He could remember the last time he'd been good and pissed. The fall of 1945 when Juno had decided that a fitting punishment for years of blatant misuse of power was to trap him in the small padded room of an asylum with Rebecca's doppelganger.

His fury now nearly matched that.

"I specifically remember telling you that we ain't interested in sellin'."

Jane stopped her silent praying. "Demon whore," she hissed before spitting in his face.

He slowly lifted a hand and wiped the slick glob from his cheek, forcing himself to look bored when on the inside he was seething.

'You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"You open your home to evil. Satan's spawn! Devil's mistress!"

Beetlejuice rolled his eyes. There was nothing more annoying to him than pious idiots who had no clue how the After Life worked.

She began praying again, her features twisted in an ugly glare.

"None of that's gonna help you."

"The power of the Holy Father protects me! He will see my cause and deem it holy! There is no place here for you. Disgusting filth! Lecherous Jezebels!"

Anger beyond anything he had ever felt pulsed through him. No one…_no one…_talked about his Lyds that way! And _no one_ pulled that holier-than-thou bullshit on _him. _

One brutal shove and Lydia was forced to the farthest recess of her mind where she was powerless to stop him.

_Safer there…she doesn't have to see-._

With inhuman speed, he moved to Jane's side, grabbed the rosary and ripped it from her hands.

"Let's see if anyone can protect t you now," he whispered close to her ear, dangling the beaded contraption in front of her face and starting it on fire.

"You know, Janey…I used to be a prayin' man. Used to go to church and all that shit. What I learned from it…is that sometimes shits gonna happen. Don't matter how hard ya pray, how much ya beg…shit's just gonna happen,."

"The Heavenly Father will protect me from your vile, evil intentions," she ground out. But he could finally hear it…that little waver of uncertainty, that tiny hitch that meant _he had her._

"Got news for ya, Miz Butterfield." He dropped the rosary and curled his hand around her neck. "He don't protect greedy, murdering bitches."

Her denial was cut off as he tightened his grip, laughing manically.

"Guess next time you should listen, huh?" He gripped her ridiculous braid with his other hand and pulled her head back. "Since the possessed house and the crazy poltergeist_ and_ the husbands raised from the dead didn't hammer the damned point in…this is how it's gonna go-."

A simple thought – a slight twitch of the fingertips and her arm snapped just above the wrist. He let her scream this time – let the terrified, pain filled shriek wash over him.

"I'll break every bone in your body."

Another twitch, another snap and the other arm joined its counterpart, fracturing just below the elbow.

"Every"

A snap of the ribs.

"Damn."

A snap of her index fingers.

"One."

Her collar bone because it was just that fucking easy.

"Until you really….really get the point."

"Please! Please…stop!" she cried.

He released her and she crumpled to the ground. Her face was contorted with such pain that it took everything in him not to laugh hysterically.

"And just when you think you can't take it anymore," he sang over her disparaging sobs, walking idly around her crippled form, "Just when you think your weak, emaciated human body can't stand another second-."

He knelt and reached down, wiping a tear from Jane's blotchy cheek. He contemplated the wet appendage. "I'll fix ya and we'll start all over."

One last snap – this one sharpened by the dampness on his fingertip- and every broken bone was mended as if they had never been harmed.

Jane gasped for breath, great hiccupping jerks that wracked her body.

"See Janey…one way or another…I'm gonna drive you insane. Whether it's from knowin' I can do this whenever the hell I want to but never knowin' when…whether its every time we play Dr. Psycho…I'm gonna drive ya bat-shit crazy-."

He pulled her up by the back of her wool coat until he could see Lydia's hostile look reflected in Jane's horrified eyes.

"Unless you get the hell out of here and never…fucking _never _come back here and bother my Lyds again."

A plaintive whimper of assent found its way past her thin lips. When he let her go again she scrambled back, barely missing the fire.

"Careful," he laughed. "Wouldn't want to get your mousy, little face all burned. Are we done here?"

"Y-yes," she stammered.

"You get gone and you stay the fuck gone. Am I gettin' through that thick skull-o yours this time?"

She nodded frantically.

"Good."

The fire vanished as if it had never been there, leaving the snow untouched and glittering under the glow of the pale blue moonlight. Already people were scattering, wisely getting away while they could.

"Scram," he bit out, bored now that he'd accomplished his promised goal."All of ya. Get the fuck outta here before I change my mind and slaughter ya."

They were quick to listen. Even Jane beat a hasty retreat, linking her arm through the reverends and casting a frightened glance over her shoulder at him before starting down the gravel drive.

_Impressive._

He snorted, watching the last of them disappear. "Coulda killed them all."

_But you didn't,_ Lydia's admiring voice replied.

"Shoulda."

_Beetlejuice._

He rolled his shoulders, sighed and closed his eyes, accepting for the first time in a long time, the call of his name.

_Beetlejuice…Bettlejuice. _


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N:** Hey you faithful friends and followers whom I love dearly! Guess what I have!? That's right…AN UPDATE! Now its not as fantastically smutty as I thought it would be because (a) I had 8 pages without the smut and (b) I just don't have it in me. Between teething, ear infections, endless viral crap circulating in not only the daycare I run but in my daughter's as well, sleepless nights and nowhere NEAR enough coffee in this entire world…I just didn't have it in me. So I hope you can all forgive me and let a bit of fluff riddled ficcage appease your Beej and Lydia hunger. Thanks to everyone who updated and holy HANNAH helped me get over 200 reviews! You are all amazing!

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

**Chapter 21: Forever**

For some reason, Lydia assumed her sense of self would return automatically the second Beetlejuice's spirit vacated her body. That wasn't how it happened at all however. The process was slow, each sense taking its moment and returning at a crawling pace to become hers once more. She kept her eyes closed and took pleasure in the lethargic return to self. The smell of smoke and cold night at war with one another trickled through, followed by the bite of the cold air against her skin. The whisper of the midnight air through the boughs of the surrounding evergreens and naked branches of various elm, oak and maple, the slight weight of her clothing over her limbs, the bitter aftertaste of the beer Beetlejuice had consumed prior to his terrorizing…every little piece, bit by it until there was nothing left to do but open her eyes.

Once she did and her vision became more focused, she was only mildly surprised that the landscape remained pristine – the snow still a soft powdery blanket marred only by footprints. Beetlejuice may have been many things, but he seemed to be almost a perfectionist in his haunting, leaving no trace behind that would hint at a paranormal experience.

Lydia made a move to turn towards the house when the fine hairs at the nape of her neck started to prickle annoyingly and a chill chased over her spine. Eyes narrowing, she scanned the surroundings. There was nothing to be seen and yet the sense of being watched remained. That creepy, skin tingling sensation that some boogeyman still lingered in the shadows of the evening, undeterred by the wrath of a protective poltergeist was persistent. Even rolling her shoulders and scolding her imagination did nothing to stop it.

Part of her wanted to shout out a reminder that they had been warned to stay away but her sense of reason told her that it would be pointless. After what Beetlejuice had done, there was no way any of them would return to finish what they had started. Not unless they were some kind of sadist that enjoyed pain on a level that was beyond sickening. That voice of reason also reminded her that Beetlejuice wasn't the only dead entity in Winter River. There was Juno. There was Rebecca. Each could have played the role of spectator this evening, overseeing the events and keeping far out of it but not far enough that they couldn't intervene if need be.

_Shrug it off, Deetz._

That was exactly what she did after angling a glare at the slopping hillside. It may have been her wayward imagination but adding a little finality to the threat Beetlejuice had left them with certainly couldn't hurt. And telling herself that it was the winter wind that chased her into the warmth of her home and not that feeling of being watched couldn't hurt either.

Lydia nearly slammed the door behind her, then stared at it for a handful of seconds before reaching out to flip the deadbolt which she couldn't help but feel ridiculous for. She lived with a ghost. What reason did she have for being paranoid?

_Speaking of which-._

She spun, expecting to see Beetlejuice or at least his body behind her but there was nothing.

"Beetlejuice?"

The silence that answered stirred a spark of worry. They'd stopped the exorcism…so where was he?  
"Beej?"

"_Here babes"._

She sighed as cold, invisible limbs wrapped securely around her.

"_Just need some time to get back to me. Those assholes kinda wiped me out". _

Like coming down from an adrenaline high, a horrible sense of urgency overtook her. She needed to see him, to hold him, to know he was still here. She'd almost lost him. Without him she'd be-.

_Be what?_

The answer to that question frightened her more than any corporeal being possibly could, more than any spectral being ever could.

_I would be alone…_

"Hurry, Beej," she managed to breath, wrapping her arms around herself as she felt the cold start to slide away, panic quickly taking its place.

She didn't know if it was the fact that he'd had enough time or that her words had held enough power to bring him back but there he was, standing before her, eyes burning hot and telling her everything he couldn't. Everything she wanted to say herself but the words wouldn't come. Every almost that wasn't.

He shifted and with a nearly inaudible sound she went to him. He pulled her in, hands clutching, nails biting into her skin. Every sensation was welcome, the mix of pleasure and pain proof that he was there – that she hadn't lost him.

When he kissed her, his lips possessive and bruising, she could taste life. Strange…but that's what she could taste. She wound her arms around his neck, clinging to him and never once questioning why death could taste so alive. She couldn't think past wanting more, craving him in some fixated way that terrified and excited her at the same time. It was dizzying - so dizzying that she started to feel herself weaken, her limbs turning heavy and her mind suddenly sluggish.

Her brown knit in confusion and she started to pull away when she suddenly realized why. He was draining her – feeding off of her to restore his power. Like a vampire drawing blood from its victim to live, he was feeding off of her life source in order to exist. She should have been offended, should have been horrified. Instead, she felt empowered and incredibly turned on. There was something very erotic about being fed off of; being needed on such an intimate level and knowing that Beetlejuice would never hurt her. He would take what he needed to regain what the near-exorcism had taken from him and no more. And she would let him.

She slid her fingers through his hair, gripping the strands between her fingers as she deepened the kiss with a low moan, letting him know he was free to take as much of her as he needed.

His arms tightened around her, an answering sound of carnal lust vibrating from the back of his throat.

She steeped herself so deeply into him that she could feel every one of his emotions as if it were hers - the surge of greed when he realized that she was onto him, the thread of humility cautiously slipping through the evil poltergeist façade as if it knew it were an intruding, foreign feeling, the blinding lust that threatened to consume them both and finally the satisfaction that drew him back.

"You," he said, framing her face between his hands, "are amazing. Tell me what you want, Babes. I'll get it for ya. A millions dollars, a new house, France."

She laughed. "You'd get me France?"

"I could damn well try."

It was tempting. An entire country - all for her. But she only wanted one thing.

"Just you," she said simply.

His mouth twisted in a contemplative frown. "Well, that ain't much."

Lydia shrugged. "You're all I need. Well, you...and maybe a bed."

"Easy."

He turned her, one arm snaking around her waist while he took her hand in his and held it out in front of them. "Think about it."

She closed her eyes and pictured a bed - a twisting black casket-shaped frame that defied convention with a spider web headboard and posts that spiraled towards the ceiling like frozen tendrils of smoke, a mattress that was made entirely of down, satin sheets of deep blood red and pitch black.

"Shit, you're twisted," Beetlejuice growled close to her ear.

She started to smile but the flood of spectral power suddenly flowing through her caused her lips to part instead. She moaned softly, surrendering herself over to Beetlejuice.

"Open those pretty eyes," he commanded, his lips brushing the flesh just below the curve of her jaw and sending a shiver through her entire body.

The bed was there, bathed in shadows, sinister and entirely inviting. Spinning in his loose embrace, Lydia took Beetlejuice's hands and walked backwards, pulling him with her.

When the back of her thighs touched the footboard, he lifted her and she wrapped her legs around his waist, laughing against his mouth when he made a fumbling attempt to move them both onto the bed and nearly dropped her.

"You're so coordinated," she teased.

"Shut up." And as if to emphasize his command, he kissed her deeply, teeth pulling on her bottom lip and she gladly did so.

With nothing more than a rough brush of his hands down the length of her body, her clothing disappeared. Like the dream she'd had what felt like forever ago, it slipped from her like a silky tide. Unlike that dream however, the clothing manifested in thin straps of satin, sliding around her wrists and securing them to the headboard.

"I didn't really intend to have my creative vision turn against me."

Beetlejuice pushed away and grinned down at her. "No one ever does," he said with a shrug. "And just 'cuz I turned it against ya doesn't mean it isn't gonna work for ya."

And in truth, it already was. Lying prone beneath him, wrists secured above her head, was making the blood course hot and excited through her veins. Granted she usually always played the submissive when it came to him but something about this time was different. Maybe because she had almost lost him. Maybe because she'd tasted the full potential of his power and was eager for more. Whatever it was, it was different and she wasn't going to waste time analyzing reasons why when she could be kissing him.

She wound her legs low around his waist and closed them quickly enough to jerk him forward. It was the last non-submissive thing she would be doing for the next several hours.

* * *

It shouldn't have been possible for a ghost to feel much of anything physical. When a person's time came, pain was usually the last thing ever felt and after that there was a whole lot of nothing. In Beetlejuice's case, pain had paved the way into the afterlife – the constant burn in the back of his throat, the agonizing scorching that filled his lungs. Even when he'd given up on trying to hold his breath and allowed water to fill his mouth and nose, the chill of it did nothing to ease the feeling of his lungs burning from the inside out. Up until Lydia, it had been the only physical emotion he could remember really feeling. All that other shit – the joy of scaring stupid people, the sexual anxiety, even the hostile anger – it was all a lot of show really, a pretense that he took mild comfort in putting forth to hang onto a shred of the humanity he'd been forced to leave behind.

He could feel now, though and it floored him. It was like being alive again. A euphoric, sated feeling of contentment and exhaustion weighed heavily on him like a thick blanket draped over his shoulders. He stared out the window of the living room, cigarette dangling between his finger tips and eyes surveying the moon-bathed hillside. Though looking over the landscape thoughtfully, his mind was on the raven-haired woman still sleeping. Ever since getting under his goddamned skin the way she had years ago, she'd always made him feel much more excited about facing another day – something that the dead, again, didn't often do. Days bled together when you were dead. But Lydia…damn Lydia…she'd given him this strange gift of knowing what it felt to feel alive again and now more so than before.

Something about last night had changed things. There had been a subtle shift that had changed things drastically. Now…now he wasn't sure he even was dead anymore. And that was a dangerous thing. That was a rule in the big 'ol book of the dead – never question your state of death. Rule number 368, page 1,377. Yes…that's right. That's how screwed up that damn handbook really was. And yet he knew it cover to cover. Being stuck in numerous punishments in vacated houses with no one to haunt had left him with a lot of reading time on his hands. Once dead, you were dead. You didn't question it. You just accepted it for what it was. Questioning your status left you open to a lot of nasty shit he really didn't feel like facing. And yet, he couldn't help it. Lydia made him live.

He looked back to the bed where she lay sprawled over coffin shaped bed, one wrist still tied loosely to the wrought iron headboard. The other lay on her stomach. The tattoo she'd gotten peeked out from between her fingertips. The paleness of her skin stood out in stark contrast with those sheets she'd thought up, the black of her hair mixing with it so well that the only visible trace of the inky strands was where they drifted over her relaxed features like tiny snow drifts over a highway. That feeling of being alive nagged harder than ever as the brief notion of her being the one that was actually a goner flitted through his mind. Something akin to horror, or at least what he thought of as horror, quickly chased it away and what he was left with was a feeling that wasn't entirely unpleasant but wasn't anything near what he'd been happily swimming in before that hideous "dead Lydia" thought has crossed his mind.

He lifted his cigarette to his mouth and inhaled slowly, drawing the smoke into lungs that couldn't breathe. _That's right…couldn't. Not anymore. Never will again – because you're the one who's dead. Not her. You Mr. Ghost with the Most, are the dead one here. _

But he could still exhale smoke and he did so slowly.

_Way to contemplatively smoke a fuckin' cigarette_, he thought, wanting to roll his eyes at how entirely stupid he was being but finding it impossible to look away from Lydia and the way her chest rose and fell, slowly with each sleep-labored breath she drew in. _Because she's alive. Not dead…alive. Why am I arguing with myself on this shit?_

The answer was simple. He was arguing with himself on her status as a breather was because he'd almost died himself…again. And if he died there was no protecting what they had. It would be over, just like that. Snapped in two like it had been nothing more than a wishbone each of them had been holding an end of. If she died…there'd be no protecting it either. There was no way her soul was a tainted, mangled, murdering disaster like his was. She'd move on…he'd stay behind. The way they were now may have worked on some level but in the grand scheme of things with fate being a fickle, nasty bitch, it wouldn't always work. Unless…

Beetlejuice straightened, eyes alight with a fevered, desperate glow. There was a way. He knew the way. He could keep her safe, he could be there with her…maybe not forever…but long enough to make sure they could enjoy what they had until she was whatever ripe-old age she would eventually leave this world at. He could keep her out of the reach of death and he could stay out of the reach of it as well…if he was free.

He put his cigarette out in the palm of his hand and crossed to the bed, sinking down beside Lydia. He brushed her hair out of her face with the tips of his fingers and it was enough to pull her gently from her slumber. A frown pulled her brows together ever so slightly and then her lids fluttered open and those pools of liquid brown stared up at him sleepily.

"Hey," she said, smiling a lazy, Cheshire I-just-got-laid-and-loved-every-minute-of-it smile.

He wasted no time. He didn't have the romantic mindset to waste time on this. "Marry me."

The smile faded, but only slightly. And he could tell she was thinking. It was sluggish because half of her was surely still trying to wake up. He would give her that. There wasn't hesitation because she wasn't sure. She was just as sure as he was, he wouldn't doubt that for a minute.

She moved her hand to take his, the one still secured to the bed and pouted up at it when she couldn't reach any farther than where it had originally rested. Beetlejuice untied the loose knot and tossed the flimsy bit of fabric aside, then twined his fingers through hers.

For a second her eyes narrowed and his certainty wavered.

"Yes."


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N:** Hi! OMG HI! Lol. I'm so sorry you guys. Beyond sorry. I've gotten the end of the fic phobia – that one that sneaks up on you and makes you cling to the last vestiges of your baby before giving it up entirely. That and life just got in the way – got overwhelming, got in the way. But here is an update! The mother of all updates. Thank you to everyone who's stuck with this, my wonderful, _wonderful_ reviewers and all I can ask at this point…is that at the end of this chapter…you do not hurt me. Thank you to Mikell for beta'ing this on the fly for me! Love to all!

**Disclaimer:** Beetlejuice does not belong to me and I make no profit from the writing of this fic.

**Chapter 22: Mausoleum **

She had said yes. Lydia Deetz had agreed to marry a crazed poltergeist and instead of rethinking her decision, she was walking down Main Street with a goofy smile on her face and a heart that was wonderfully light. She knew he had his reasons. She had no idea what they were or if they were any different from what they had been the first time he'd coerced her into marriage. But it didn't matter. At least not for the time being. She was marrying him and she couldn't be happier.

She could easily picture the intensity in his dark eyes when he'd asked her. It wasn't a look she could say no to. It wasn't a look she wanted to say no to.

She suppressed a shudder of longing as she pushed her way into the local craft store, the bell overhead welcoming her. It was the only thing that did, however. There were three other occupants of the store – three older women with hideously overdone makeup - and the looks they gave her were anything but welcoming. She ducked her head, slightly taken aback, and tucked her hair behind her ear, starting towards them. As she passed by, the girls school training drilled into her all throughout her adolescence forced her to smile politely and nod, even if the simple pleasantry wasn't returned. If anything, the looks the women were giving her became even frostier.

Once she'd passed, one broke away and scurried to the front door, leaving the other two to move closer together and start talking in suspicious whispers.

Lydia did the best she could to ignore them, going to the back of the store where the art supplies sat meticulously displayed under the florescent lighting. She'd had her heart set on a purchase of charcoals for quite some time now and she'd be damned if a bunch of buys body old maids was going to put her off her purchase. Even if she couldn't figure out what she'd done to get them all worked up.

_Not you…Beetlejuice._

The thought stalled her as her fingers brushed over a collection of expensive pencils. Had they been there last night? She couldn't remember any faces right off the top of her head. She glanced up to take a better look, not surprised to see the two women still staring daggers at her. Their faces did nothing to spark her memory.

Though the rebellious side argued that it would be very much worthwhile to linger and further aggravate the gossip mongers echoed faintly by the sinister encouragement to summon Beetlejuice and allow him to possess her again, disgust in humanity and reason won out.

Lydia snatched the set of charcoals she'd settled on from the hook and started towards the register, shoulders back and a haughty expression firmly in place.

The women immediately stopped their clucking, watching her with obvious disapproval. As the cashier silently rang up her purchase, Beetlejuice's voice filled her head, his snake like whisper nearly startling a gasp from her.

_Bet you didn't know it, Babes, but 'ol Fernie Baker behind the counter has herself a hubs with wanderin' hands. And they usually wander all over Janice McKree. _

_ Janice McKree?_

_ Next to ya. Why, just last Tuesday he was over there. Poker night with the boys – or at least that's what he tells the 'ol ball and chain._

Lydia couldn't stop the grin pulling at her lips so she over sweetened it and turned it on Janice after laying a twenty on the counter. "It must be nice for you to be able to rely on the Bakers," she said sweetly.

The disapproving look was immediately wiped from the older woman's face and replaced by stupefied shock.

"I never knew Mr. Baker was a handy-man. He must be pretty good though if he'll blow off poker night to…service your needs."

Mrs. Baker's angered gasp was all the validation Lydia needed. She turned on her heel and breezed out of the store, leaving the two women to squabble.

The victorious high was quick to recede, leaving her scowling once more as she racked her brain in attempts to remember faces from last night. Being a secondary participant – and a distant one at that – it was difficult to remember much of anything. Still, she knew that what Beetlejuice had done hadn't amounted to some simplistic parlor tricks. What he had done should have left every last one of them –

_Runnin' for the fuckin' hills._

Lydia sighed and smiled patiently. "Kindly get out of my head please."

His throaty cackle drifted off into nothingness and when she was certain she was the only occupant in her head, she started to think again.

How far had word of last night gotten? And just how skewed was the information? Obviously, a detailed account wasn't what people were hearing. The two busy bodies in the craft shop would have been acting much differently if they knew what had actually happened.

Deciding to prolong her return so that she could mull a little longer over what had happened last night, proposal included, Lydia turned towards her favorite place in Winter River – the cemetery.

As she passed through the wrought-iron archway flanked by cobblestone pillars, she smiled fondly at the array of headstones. It was beautiful here. There was a peace that spoke to her. It should have been her first indication when she was younger that she wasn't entirely "right in the head" as some would put it. But this was her solace. She could walk among the markers, imagine tragic love stories that befell couples placed in the ground side by side, she could concoct stories around the solitary headstones, she could appreciate the creation and heart that went into fashioning monuments to memorialize those placed to rest. It was cryptic. And she loved cryptic. She was only slightly upset that she hadn't bothered to bring her camera with her. The clouds floating lazily overhead were tinged with gray, the blue of the sky peaking out enough to offer a teasing hint of the spring weather to come. Everything was so unrushed here - so perfect.

She continued through the markers to her preferred spot towards the back corner where the headstones were old, weathered and overgrown with crippled, dead vines. The thick trees threw the forgotten monuments into shadows. And there, toward the back, like something out of a gothic novel, was a humble mausoleum. Though she had several pictures, several drawing even, of this particular structure, it never failed to bring an appreciative smile to her face. It was so old that the name had practically been eroded away. Faintly, the carved letters peaked out from under a mess of brown vines.

As her gaze lowered to the brass plated doors, the smile slipped from her face and her brows lowered. The door stood slightly open, the iron gate that was usually locked in front of it, undone. The door had never stood open. It had, disappointingly always been locked. Lydia wasn't even aware of any family in Winter River with the last name of Elison. She'd researched the mausoleum as much as she could and could never come up with much more information than the Elison's being a founding family of Winter River that kept to themselves.

Curious, she moved forward, a tiny thrill of excitement settling in her nerves. She had always wanted to enter the tomb but no amount of amateur lock-smith tricks had popped the lock. What stood beyond the heavy door intrigued her so much so that she had, for a brief period of time, obsessed over the very idea. That yearning returned full force as she neared the door and laid her hand over the thick handle to pull it open further. The door gave with a heavy groan that broke the silence and caused Lydia to suck in a startled breath. She looked behind her to ensure that she was alone, then moved over the threshold.

The musty smell of aged death assailed her and she breathed it in, her eyelids dropping closed as she savored the aroma. There was a sweetness to it that was unexpected. Dirt, decay, and something tangibly saccharine.

Opening her eyes, Lydia looked in awe around the inside of the mausoleum. The walls boasted old, dingy stained glass, the pictures barely discernible through the thick layer of dust. The floor was dirt. But someone had taken the painstaking task of embedding large slabs of stone within it until it formed some semblance of a marble floor. This place was loved. Or rather, it had been.

Her eyes settled on the raised dais where the tomb sat. Sprayed over the top was an array of long dead flowers, brown and held in place by grime and cobwebs. Lydia approached it to tomb, reaching out to touch the bouquet and hesitating. Something about disturbing the peace seemed wrong.

"I suppose you find some kind of beauty in a place like this, don't you Ms. Deetz?"

Lydia whirled, a gasp catching in her throat. Standing in the doorway, her pencil straight figure silhouetted by the muted sunlight, was Jane Butterfield. Seeing her wouldn't have been something to dredge up one iota of fear. Seeing the knife casually clasped in her hand, however, would.

Cold dread settled in the pit of Lydia's stomach as she stood perfectly still, her eyes on the blade.

"Your house belonged to an Elison. Did you know that?" Keeping her eyes on Lydia, Jane reached back and pulled the heavy door closed, shutting out the light and the rest of the world. "Magda Elison. She was a stubborn old woman. Very quiet. Very stuck in her ways. Her son was the first of my three husbands. Bartholomew." She sighed wistfully. "Oh, Bartholomew. Even winning him over couldn't provide me with the means to talk the old bitch out of releasing the deed.

"Barbra Maitland, however, managed to win her over. Something about her quaint, countrified manner warmed the woman's cold heart and next thing I knew, she was passing away and leaving the house to the Maitland's."

Lydia retreated a step, her eyes darting around for something she could use as a weapon. All she had was charcoal pencils. Charcoal pencils against a knife - the odds were not in her favor.

"It wasn't right. A house on such a wonderful piece of land should go to someone who can _do_ something with it, someone who _knows_ its worth. Not to two country bumpkins unable to truly appreciate real-estate." Her eyes narrowed and a sneer twisted her thin lips. "Or to some self-centered artist and her eccentric family. Your father has a history of buying real-estate and spending little time in it before selling it for a profit. He was not supposed to be in the habit of leaving behind a perfectly livable home, especially after turning it into something so promising."

"You did…research on my father?" Lydia muttered in disbelief. She had known the woman was crazy. She'd misjudged just how crazy.

"Well, of course I did. One must research their perspective investments to ensure that they will pay off. Your father…did not pay off. The house, however, still will. Once you and your little _friend _are out of the way." A smile tilted those sickeningly thin lips. "Of course, he can't help you here."

The question of why lodged itself in her throat when Jane pulled a copy of the infamous handbook from her purse. "Your taste in literature it quite interesting." Flipping through the pages, the knife still clasped in her long, bony fingers, Jane went to a marked page and cleared her throat. "Cemeteries are and will always be sacred places where the dead are laid to rest. They cannot and will not be used for haunting grounds by souls in the Afterlife. Unless summoned by the living, these grounds will remain off limits. And even then, the soul must be in a severe state of limbo in order to appear to the Living."

She snapped the book shut derisively and returned it to her purse. Then, with a casual flick of her wrist, she tossed the purse aside and advanced on Lydia.

Lydia's head was spinning now, her blood pumping with a dangerous mixture of terror and adrenaline. She moved back, a startled gasp leaving her when her back met the resistance of the tomb.

"He'll come if I call him." She threatened.

"That's what I'm hoping for. You see, Ms. Deetz," Jane's voice dropped to a hiss. "This time, there will be no mistakes. I will exorcise him. And with both of you out of the way, the house will be mine."

Lydia snorted. "Right. How exactly are you going to pull that off? You think my dad's going to just hand you over the deed because he'll be so consumed by grief? You think a murdering psychopath like you gets to win?"

"No, I don't think. I know. And provided with the proper motivation, I'm sure your father will see my point at ridding himself of such a horrid reminder of his daughter's self-inflicted death."

Lydia barely suppressed the shudder that overwhelmed her. Bile rose in her throat. She was staring at her death, helpless to stop it. Desperate, she feinted right and attempted to dash past Jane but the other woman moved surprisingly quick, the cold fingers of her free hand wrapping around Lydia's wrist and yanking her backwards.

Lydia cried out, losing her footing. Her knee struck the edge of one of the large stones on the ground and pain shot up her side, bringing tears to her eyes. Releasing her hand, Jane quickly twined it in her hair and yanked her head back. It bumped against Jane's thigh and then the cold bite of steel was at her neck. Lydia swallowed thickly and went perfectly still.

"Call him," she demanded, jerking her head back again until the tears swimming in Lydia's eyes started to track down her flushed cheeks.

Her mind raced in terrified circles. She stared at the door, at her means of survival. If she could call him…if she could warn him somehow.

"Call him now, Ms. Deetz. Prolong your death."

_Beej…Beetlejuice…please, be there-._

But there was nothing. The rules…the damn rules. If he couldn't frequent the cemetery, her mind was probably off limits right now as well. And if she called him…if she called him, Jane would kill him.

And then there was a voice, echoing faintly in her subconscious.

_There is evil you must face…evil that would see both you…and him dead. To survive it, you must be willing to give in to what you fear._

The tears started to come faster, burning against her chilled skin.

_The most difficult thing about making the right choice however…is when it hurts everyone we love. There is no way around what fate has planned for you now that you have chosen this path. There is nothing that will make your journey easy or the choices you have to make simple._

Her own voice echoed almost hollowly in her head. _Well, when then? If you can't tell me what it is, at least tell me when. When am I supposed to make these decisions?_

_When the time comes…you will know it. You will know what to do..and you will know not to do it._

Lydia forced back a sob. She knew what Rebecca had meant now. She knew what she had to do. She knew she couldn't do it. She couldn't offer Beetlejuice up to his own death.

"No," she whispered.

Jane's fist tightened around her hair. The blade twisted, biting into her skin. "What did you say?" she demanded, her voice an outraged whisper.

Lydia drew in a shuddering breath.

_I'm so sorry, Daddy. I love you so much. Please…please forgive me._

She steeled herself. "I said…no."

There was a moment of complete silence. Neither of them moved, neither of them breathed. Lydia thought that perhaps now would be a good time to hope. Though she knew any form of hope, at this point, was futile.

"You selfish, idiotic bitch," Jane muttered. "Say hello to Bartholomew for me, wont you?"

Lydia had enough time to suck in a breath. And then…she was gone.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N:** I feel like I'm constantly apologizing for the lateness of my updates. But really, you guys shouldn't be kept waiting. And although I could blame it on life getting in the way again…a larger part of me didn't want to face the end of this. Because that's what this is. The end. And I didn't want to see it come to a close so quickly. Lol, okay…that's laughable. It took me like two years to write this. But still. I invested a lot in this and to close it now feels almost heartbreaking. I hope it was worth the wait and thank you to everyone who reviewed, everyone who made this a fav, everyone who put this on an alert. Thank you all for helping me make this fic what it is. Love to you all!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

**Chapter 23: The Beginning**

The second he lost her, Beetlejuice heaved a sigh of disgust and flopped down on the couch. Damn that Lydia and her infatuation with the cemetery – the _one_ _place_ he couldn't follow her into. Stepping over the threshold immediately severed any spiritual connection he had to her. He was hoping she'd high-tail it home but apparently she'd had other ideas. Unlike him, she was entirely comfortable with the idea of being engaged to him. Beetlejuice, however, couldn't shake the anxiety and impatience that had settled thickly over him after she'd said yes. Every minute that passed without actually taking action on that proposal was a minute that he felt he was wasting.

"The damn girl could at least fake a little eagerness," he muttered into the silence, setting one foot on the coffee table and hooking the other over his ankle. Fixing a glower on his face, he stared straight ahead, crossing his arms over his chest.

_Better hurry the hell back. Sittin' in this house alone is the boring as hell._

A sudden tightness seized his chest. He sat up, planting his feet on the floor and rubbing at it.

"What the fuck-."

It intensified and he flinched, grunting softly. For one briefly flaring moment, he thought someone had come back for round two of his attempted exorcism. This wasn't the feeling of being exorcised, however. It was different. Unlike the chill of death that had snaked mercilessly around him, he felt an intense heat that seemed to wind its way _into_ him, growing more and more uncomfortable. He felt like he couldn't breathe. Which was a joke. Of course he couldn't breathe. He was dead.

He placed a hand on the coffee table, gripping the edge of it tightly. "Lyds-."

The tightness moved to his chest, aggressively making itself impossible to ignore. He stood and started pacing; hoping that movement alone would ease whatever the hell it was. He didn't have a name for what he was feeling. It was familiar…but the last time he'd felt anything resembling this foreign emotion had been so long ago. He racked his brain for a label. Whatever this nasty, hot, gut wrenching emotion was…he despised it. It was too raw, to…_human._

He came to an abrupt stop, his eyes going wide as the memories he'd been sifting through shifted into place. The last time he'd felt this was when he'd been alive. He had been kneeling beside Rebecca, leaning over her as she blindly grasped for the chamber pot. Her retching had filled the room and he'd known, without any semblance of a doubt, that their attempts to avoid the plague had been useless. And what he'd felt…what he felt now…was panic.

He started to pace again, running trembling hands through his hair, confused as to why he would been feeling such a pathetic emotion, confused as to why every attempt to reach out for Lydia yielded nothing.

"Where are you, babes. Get out of that fucking cemetery and get to where I can _find you." _

The front door rattled and he drew to a stop, his gaze slowly lifting. It wasn't Lydia. If it had been Lydia, he would have felt it. He would have known.

Heels sounded on the hardwood floor, drawing closer. He tensed. The panic welled inside of him. There was no silencing it. He wanted to press his hands to his head, to scream and drown it out. But he knew, just like he'd known watching Rebecca die, that there was no point.

The heels drew closer and a sudden sickness twisted his insides as he watched Jane Butterfield come around the corner, a vapid smile pulling at the corners of her thin lips. And…

He jerked, something shattering deep within him.

Blood. She was covered in blood. It was splattered over her blouse, over her legs, over the obnoxiously straight skirt.

"Hello, Mr. Beetleman," she murmured with nauseating sweetness. "A pleasure to see you again." The smile vanished. Her face was an emotionless mask. "This time, your whore will not stop me."

He did scream then. His hands curled into fists, the nails biting into the flesh. Fury, agony, and vengeance washed over him in relentless waves. Throwing his head back, an inhuman shriek tore from his throat. It bled from him, filling the house, echoing off the walls. Jane flinched back, covering her ears.

It took everything he had, every ounce of willpower, but little by little, he shut everything off. The pain, the horrible suffocating loss, the happiness Lydia had shown him, his love for her – he shut everything off until all that remained was a hollow shell of a man driven by one thing. The need to kill.

He lowered his head, his lips peeling back over his teeth and forming an inhuman grin. A slow, maniacal cackle built inside of him, flowing out of him like thick, swampy venom.

"I was looking forward to torturing you. And you…you pathetic, simpering female…took away the one thing that would keep me from killing you." He cocked his head to the side. His eyes glowed with feral bloodlust. "Nice fuck up, Janey."

One simple thought and he was standing no more than a breath away from her. He curled his hand around her neck, feeling the pulse there trip wildly. Tightening his hand, he reveled in the sound of her breath coming to a sudden stop. Her fear fed his rage. It made the murderous creature he now was shriek in delight.

"Go ahead. Try to exorcise me," he hissed close to her ear. "See if you can talk through all of that blood."

He lifted his hand, intent on shoving it into her chest until he could touch her heart, curl his fingers around it and slowly clench until it ruptured and her life spilled over his cold skin. The air around them sizzled and he pulled back, looking around for the source. There was something else there, something inhuman.

_Good…moments like these deserve an audience._

Intent on destroying Jane Buttlerfield, with or without unwelcome guests, his hand shot out. Before he was even able to so much as brush her flat, girlish chest with his fingertips, he was yanked back. The room slanted, it blurred. Smoke obscured his vision, then just as quickly slipped away, revealing a desk piled with paperwork. And behind it, looking uncharacteristically sympathetic, was Juno.

What he felt then…there were no words for it. It was too deep. The pain too overwhelming. It was beyond grieving, beyond agony. The fury drained from him. He stared at Juno, stared long and hard. Then, the one question he could ask…the only question he could ask, felt as if it were ripped clean from what blackened, charred ashes remained of his soul.

"Why?"

He didn't wait for her answer. He couldn't. He staggered forward, then fell to his knees. His hands fisted in his hair. Heat raced over his cheeks, down to his chin and faintly he realized that they were tears. He could barely register the sound of her chair wheels sliding over concrete or the loud clack of her low heels approaching him.

"Beetlejuice…I…I'm so sorry. There was nothing we could do. She chose her fate-."

"_Fate?!"_ His hands were at her neck, gripping it tightly. He glared down at her. "You bring her to me…you _bring her to me!_ Bring me Lydia or set me free to kill that Butterfield bitch! If you keep me here…there won't be a fucking thing you can do to stop my wrath. I'll take it all over the fucking Afterlife. And when I'm done here, you can bet your haggard ass I'll get loose…and the entire world will know my fucking vengeance. So ask yourself, Juno, you fucking meddling bitch…do you want that much blood on your hands?" He paused, then shouted, "Do you?!"

"Beetlejuice," she said evenly, her eyes intent on him. "Please…understand. Your fate was twined with the Deetz girl. She chose to save you. She chose her path-."

"I don't give a shit about her path!" he shouted. If there was one thing he didn't want to hear about, if there was one thing he wanted to kill more than Jane Butterfield, it was Fate. "I don't give a shit about Fate. Do you realize who the hell you're talking to?!"

"Beetlejuice-."

His name did not come from Juno. It was softer, sweeter. It wrapped around him and those horrifyingly human emotions clawed at his insides. Releasing Juno, he slowly turned. They never let angels in the Afterlife…and yet, there one stood, her black hair framing her pale face, the blue dead glow of the outer rooms spilling around her willowy form.

He stumbled to his feet, trembling. "Lydia-."

"Beej," she whispered back, tears spilling over her cheeks.

He moved for her without thinking, pulling her against him with one arm, burying his hand in her hair and resting his forehead against hers. Her hands were all over him, framing his face, traveling down his neck. Her sobs tore at him almost as much as the sight of her blood soaking her shirt. Lydia was dead. His Lydia…had been murdered.

"Lyds-." He couldn't manage to do much more than choke out her name so he kissed her instead, heartbroken at the cold feel of her lips against his. There was so much injustice to all of this. He had her…but this wasn't what he had wanted. She'd been so filled with life, so vibrant in her humanity. To have it stolen away didn't seem right.

"She was going to kill you," she stammered. "Jane…she wanted me to call you so that she could kill you. So that she could kill us both. I couldn't-." She paused and swallowed hard. "I couldn't let her do that to you."

"Lydia…you shouldn't have. You had a life-."

"Without you…I had nothing."

"As much as I hate to break up this particular reunion," Juno interrupted. And she did sound genuinely hesitant. "There are several matters we need to address and clean up."

The two turned to face her, Lydia leaning into Beetlejuice and Beetlejuice wrapping his arms around her, unwilling to release her.

"She said there wouldn't be any penalties," Lydia said, taking him by surprise.

Juno nodded once. "And she was right. There will be no penalties. However, that being said-."

"Wait," Beetlejuice interrupted, trying to catch up. "Who said there wouldn't be any penalties?"

Lydia looked up at him, an apology etched all over her face. "Your wife."

"Yes, Rebecca was working from the other side. There were things we needed you to understand. As I stated before…you have chosen your paths. Your fates have been tied together for longer than either of you know. To keep this tie from being severed, it was required that we step back and allow things to happen that we would normally never allow. How else do you think it is that you were able to pull off a level three possession on a human without interruption?"

Lydia turned in his arms. She reached up to pull his face down and although he was attempting to grasp whatever had been going on without his knowledge, he looked down at her, lost in the ebony depths.

"Please, don't be mad at me. I couldn't let you die. Not again. I knew…I knew we could still be together but if she exorcised you…if she took you from me-."

The tears came faster and he shushed her, stroking the hair back from her face and tightening his arm around her.

"Ms. Deetz is right, Beetlejuice. However-."

He felt Lydia's hands grip the cloth of his jacket. She stilled against him and hesitantly moved her head to regard Juno with eyes that mirrored his own wariness.

"However…there are stipulations. You two are more than welcome to live out the remainders of your lives here in the Afterlife. Or…if you choose to-."

"I want to stay here," Lydia spoke up, quickly interrupting Jane with childish fervor. "I want to stay with him."

"Well, come on now…let's hear the lady out," Beetlejuice managed. His voice sounded thick to him. It was difficult to even say the words. But he wanted to hear what the other option was. Because this one…this one-.

Although he wanted to be with Lydia forever…it wasn't right.

"Your other option…is to serve out the remainder of you sentence in another universe so that you, Beetlejuice, can move on with her. You can be free of the Afterlife. You would be required to keep a constant vigil on Miss Deetz to ensure her safety. But once your sentence is up and once Fate steps in once more, you both will be free to move on."

The tension in him tripled as the words slipped in and settled uncomfortably.

"Well, it's settled then," Lydia said. "I stay here." She looked up at him, her gaze so filled with love that it literally ripped at any shred of a soul that remained within him. "I stay with you. I want to be with you, Beetlejuice…always."

He leaned down, brushed his mouth reverently over hers. "I want to be with you too, Babes." He pulled back, forcing a smile to his lips. "Why don't you go on ahead to the waiting room. I'll finish up here and be right behind ya."

She smiled brightly…but he couldn't ignore the crimson stain of her life spread over the dark fabric below her neck. Once she was out of the room, the door closing softly behind her, he turned to Juno.

"What aren't you telling me," he demanded.

With a sigh, Juno moved around her desk and sank into the chair, pulling a slim cigarette from a pile of them stacked in the ashtray on her desk.

"Allowing Miss Deetz to return to the living would strip her of every memory she has from this life…including any memory that involves you. If she stays here however-."

Juno's hooded gaze dropped to a file on her desk. Moving closer, Beeltejuices eyes narrowed as the name on the tab came into view. Charles Deetz.

"Her decision has consequences," Juno said slowly. "You two were made for each other. Your lives were meant to be lived together, regardless of where you live them. But if she stays here." She sighed and sat back, drawing deeply of her cigarette before continuing. "Winter Rivers is a small town, Beetlejuice. And when Charles returns to it, it will only be a matter of time before he starts to hear the catalyst that brought on the death of his daughter. He will not, for one minute, believe it was a suicide like Jane had intended. No one will. No one local will follow through with suspicions either. Charles will. His daughter's death will have a profound reaction. It will set off a chain of events and the result will end in Charles Deetz being imprisoned. He will be sentenced to death for the cold-blooded murder of twelve individuals. And Jane Butterfield will not be one of them."

Had Beeltejuice had the capability to breathe, he wouldn't have been able to.

Juno went on, her tone clipped and business like. "Charles Deetz will never see the inside of a gas chamber. After one month and eighteen days of imprisonment, on the day of his daughter birthday, he will take his own life." Her nail tapped the file on her desk. "And he will serve the rest of his afterlife here."

"Will she-." He paused and cleared his throat, trying to find his voice through the chaos dragging its nails over every inch of his insides. "Will she be with her parents if she goes to this…other universe thing?"

"Yes."

"And their memories?"

"Like Lydia. None from this life."

Silence hung thick and uneasy, broken only by the hiss of paper burning as Juno's cigarette burned down.

"Send her back."

Juno's startled gaze lifted to him. "Send her-."

"Back," Beetlejuice repeated. "Send her back. She deserves better than this shit. She deserves to move on, to be with her family. She deserves the life she wasn't even able to finish off because of that fucking psychopath."

"Beetlejuice…you can't possibly be serious."

"But I am." He rested his hands on the surface of her desk and leaned forward, laughing humorlessly. "That's the bitch of it. You'd think I'd have no problem being the selfish prick I usually am. Hell…I should be relieved that I've got someone here now to make shit interesting. But with her-." He shook his head and frowned. "With her…I can't be."

Juno hesitated, watching him carefully. "Beetlejuice…are you sure?"

It was the only thing that felt right. And he had to do right by Lydia. She deserved more than him. She deserved more than to be stuck in this hellhole, serving out bullshit sentences to bide the time through the endless monotony of eternity. And yes, eventually she would be with her father, but she would never forgive herself for what he would turn into because of her death.

"Yeah, I'm sure." He straightened, turning to look out Juno's office window. Lydia stood in the waiting room, making small talk with Miss Argentina. A beautiful smile lit her pale face.

"Send her back."

There was a pause, and then a soft, resigned, "as you wish."

The room shifted. Like before, it became nothing more than a hazy jumble of colors through a veil of thick smoke. Then the smoke drifted away and he was alone in a room. A coffin shaped bed took up one corner, a simple table the other, and above it…the mirror into the other world.

He almost dreaded walking forward. Slow steps took him to the portal where the room of a young girl slowly came into view. And there she was – a young Lydia Deetz, black hair piled atop her head in some misconstrued ponytail, a black smock framing her adolescent form. The flats she wore padded over the carpet that she was attempting to wear a hole in. Her lips were pulled into a moue of unhappiness.

On her bed was an array of sketches, all boasting some fashionable gothic creation. Just as many littered the floor, angrily crumpled into unusable balls.

Her dark eyes suddenly lifted and a gasp left her parted lips. She took a careful step forward, then another, her eyes boring into his.

Once she was directly in front of the mirror, she lifted a hand and pressed her fingers to the glass surface.

"Who…are you?"

Beeteljuice stared down at her. He wanted to cry. He wanted to howl endlessly into the unforgiving universe until he felt purged of every human emotion eating away at him. Instead, he fixed a smile on his face.

"I'm the ghost with the most, Babes."


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: Pretty sure some of you were onto me and KNEW there was no way I could just leave a fic like that. I mean...yeah, the ending seemed pretty fitting. But I love a happy ending. And that was NOT a happy ending. Beetlejuice and Lydia deserved a lot better.  
And I could have spent time fleshing this out a bit more, finessing it. It's not some of my best but I did read over it and was happy with the end result. I just hope you guys are as well. So, without further ado, the TRUE ending to Haunting Temptation.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of Beetlejuice and make not profit from the writing of this fic.

**Epilogue**

It was, thank whatever deity she could think of, the last day of school. And for Lydia Deetz, it was the last day of school _ever. _Or at least public school. She had an array of colleges to choose from, all of which she had wanted to get into and none of which she could easily choose.

Humming softly, she mounted her bicycle and started down the road for home, exchanging pleasant, nondescript goodbyes with fellow classmates as they called out to her. She could hardly name half of them, having invested more time in establishing and maintaining a friendship with a ghost than working on any living associations. Speaking of which, said poltergeist was probably pacing her room now, impatiently awaiting her return. She'd forgotten to send him back before leaving the house that morning. She had no doubt that in her absence, Beetlejuice had cooked up some elaborate Neitherworld party for her in celebration of the final school year finished and a summer free to spend with him. Now, what a summer _that_ would be. She could think of no better way to pass the time than by spending it with her best friend before committing the remainder of her young adult life to college.

Even as she thought those words, however, her brow furrowed and a delicate frown tugged at the corners of her lips. Beetlejuice _was_ a friend. The only friend she had that understood her cryptic ways, her tastes, her attitude, and truly appreciated her for who she was. Not that Bertha and Prudence, the two "breathers" she'd made the effort to create friendships with, didn't try. They most certainly gave it everything they could. But Beetlejuice was effortless in his understanding. He'd undone a lot of the damage Claire Brewster and her lackeys had done to Lydia's self-esteem throughout the first year of high school. He encouraged every macabre inspiration that had shaped her artistic career. He had been…her everything.

Lately though…lately she'd been having strange dreams. She'd had them at night, but more alarmingly, she'd had them throughout the day when she was wide awake and fully aware of the inner workings of her mind. Some of them had been mild accounts – two adults talking over coffee while the full moon rose high through the kitchen window, the same two adults discussing a horribly devastating account of a life once lived. There had been a night where they stood on either side of a mirror, facing each other and the tension in that dream had haunted her much of the following week.

There had been other dreams however – dreams filled with desire and heat that left her head spinning. They were disjointed and hazy…almost…almost as if they were visions attempting to resurface from another time. And although she could never clearly make out the faces or place the voices, she had a niggling feeling that she was watching herself and Beetlejuice.

Laughing at the ridiculous notion, Lydia shook her head and veered to the left, intent on taking a detour through the local cemetery before returning home. Beetlejuice could wait. He wouldn't be pleased about it, but he would just have to deal with it. He'd known long ago that she constantly bypassed conventional routes when she could to pass through the stone markers and appreciate the thought that had gone into each chiseled monument, the noticeable chill that tainted the air, the mournful call the dead seemed to provoke from their final resting place.

She drove under the wrought iron archway, thinking of nothing in particular as her tires went from smooth pavement to the rough, uneven terrain of earth. Casting her gaze lazily around, she glanced up and started slightly. Where the entry usually said Peaceful Pines Cemetery, now it read Winter River Cemetery. She came to a stop, her feet hitting and skidding over grass and pebbles.

"What the…"

She blinked and once again the sign stated Peaceful Pines.

"Winter Rivers," she murmured, the name slipping with familiarity over her tongue. She knew that name. How did she know that name?

Unease settled heavily in her stomach as she continued to stare up at the archway, half expecting the letters to shift again. When nothing happened, she attempted to shrug it off and pressed down on the pedals, easing her way further into the cemetery.

"Winter Rivers…Winter Rivers," she murmured, paying no attention to the world around her. The name sounded too familiar. If she said it enough times, maybe she could-.

"Go completely senile," she deadpanned. She laughed somewhat nervously and forced herself to look around, trying to force her mind from the sudden obsession to place a name that was probably just some obscure town up north she and her parents had passed by when she was younger.

Two fresh plots came into view. She pulled to a stop beside them, resting her bike against a nearby tree and sinking to the ground before the headstones. New markers were always fascinating to her, and in this case, a welcome distraction. Or at least they would have been if the granite had not been so unnaturally white and the faces of the angles that flanked the long headstone weren't so detailed. The wings that hung so low that they nearly touched the ground appeared real. She almost reached out to touch them, to assure herself that they weren't, but stopped to read the names.

"Barbara and Adam Maitland."

The second the names passed her lips the unease twisted and sharp pain shot clear up her spine. A sudden, persistent throbbing started at the base of her skull, one that would no doubt turn into a near-migraine if she didn't find some aspirin in the relatively near future. But those names…

Like Winter River, they had a familiarity to them that wasn't entirely comfortable. There was a memory there, lurking just below the surface of her subconscious, steeped in some heartrending combination of love and sorrow.

"Winter River…Maitland…Barbara-."

The pounding intensified. Rubbing her temples, Lydia closed her eyes against the dull pounding. She needed to get home. This last day, once anticipated with exhilaration and anticipation was quickly turning into some emotional nightmare that made _no_ sense.

Lydia rose shakily to her feet and started for her bike. But then another marker caught her eye and the pain that felt as if it were tearing open her ribcage to gain entrance was so overwhelming that it brought hot tears to her eyes.

Again, the marker was too bright. But no angel watched over it. No epitaph forever solidified the love for the life beneath it. Instead, there was a name. Only one name. Rebecca.

Gasping, Lydia fell to her knees as visions exploded in mind. Two women, one obviously not of this world, standing in a cemetery much like this one in front of a grave much like the one she couldn't drag her horrified gaze from.

_"Fate is not so fickle as to create one path for a person to follow. She creates many. Our lives are more ours to control than hers. She provides everyone with the opportunity to have a different ending to their story."_

The one who was corporeal glared at the woman who wasn't, her dark gaze filled with hatred and fear. And those eyes…she _knew_ those eyes!

"That, my dear, is because they are yours."

Lydia whirled and the spiritual being that had been in her head was standing before her, a calm smile on her face.

Lydia closed her eyes, feeling a sudden sense of vertigo. When she opened them, she was once again alone. The hair on the back of her neck prickled and anxiety crawled uncomfortably over her skin, urging her to run.

"You live with a ghost," she reminded herself, diligently ignoring the sick feeling twisting her insides. "Spooks and graveyards should be child's play to you."

Her gaze was pulled back to the simple headstone where Rebecca's name glared back. It seemed darker now, carved further into the granite than it had been. But that wasn't possible-.

The nauseating twisting intensified. Her vision blurred. Blindly, Lydia reached out, wincing when bark from a young sapling bit into the tender skin of her palm. Stumbling towards the tree, she leaned heavily against it. Sweat beaded over her brow and started to gasp for breath, feeling as if she couldn't drag in air to sustain her life quickly enough.

"What…is going on-."

She only half expected an answer. Maybe her friendly graveyard specter would come back and give her more than just a quick observation on the familiarity of a dream.

Instead, dizziness overwhelmed her and she staggered forward, her knees hitting the ground. She hugged the tree for some stability, closing her eyes tightly against the rush of queasiness. It was the wrong thing to do. Immediately visions started clouding her mind again, overlapping one another and filling her head with a discordant clutter of voices.

_So what's the deal? House seems kinda empty-._

_"You're dead. You should know all about what happened, shouldn't you?"_

_Maybe…maybe not. Why don't ya tell me?_

_"Adam and Barbara…Dead, dead, deadski-."_

_Smart ass._

_"Must have picked it up from you-."_

_Whatever. Always were a sadistic little death-stalking bitch._

_Lydia dug her nails into the unyielding bark. _

_"What are ya gonna do, Deetz? Stop me?"_

_"No."_

_"You're playin' with a whole mess of fire, Lyds. Sure you want to do that?"_

_"So in over six hundred years, that's the best line you can come up with? I'm playing with fire? You don't scare me." _

Her blood coursed from cold to hot as the words stroked a fire that should have been unknown to her. But she couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't.

_"Thought I told you not to feel all sad for me."_

_"Someone has to."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because, against my better judgment…I love you."_

Lydia whimpered, clinging harder to the tree, welcoming the bite of the rough bark against her cheek. It was the only thing keeping her in touch with some semblance of reality right now. Her mind had taken a complete detour, showing her visions from…visions from what?

"Your past," came a breathy whisper, sifting through the leaves and echoing gently off the headstones.

Lydia cried out as pain exploded behind her eyelids. Her stomach rolled and large tears rolled steadily down her flushed cheeks.

"Please…please-," she whimpered, though she had no idea what she was begging for. Mercy maybe, because surely this had to be what dying felt like.

_" I showed you your true potential. You have any idea how many of you goddamned breathers walk around never figuring out your connection to the other world and using it? I showed you what everyone else ignores…and you loved it."_

_"I didn't love it! There was no part of me that loved that. In fact, I didn't feel a damned thing. Not even when you made me stab you! I stuck that knife in you…and I…didn't…care. How could anyone love feeling like that?"_

_"How could anyone enjoy not caring about stabbing someone they love?" _

Bile was rising in her throat, burning its way up.

_"Lydia. I love you. What more do you need?"_

_"I want to know that the one person I that I love, the one person who I can relate to and the one person who understands me…is someone I can trust. You told me to…I did…and you used me."_

_"Let me out, Lydia."_

_"Beetlejuice-."_

_"Just…let me out. I can't do this from the other side of the fucking mirror."_

The visions kept coming faster and faster, completely out of control, overwhelming her until she thought she would go insane. And suddenly, unexpectedly, they came to a screaming halt and she was in a smoke filled room. Dingy, green light filtered through the haze. A woman sat at a desk, her hooded gaze on the two people across from her – Beetlejuice…and herself.

Lydia felt her blood run cold as she stared at her older self. She clung to Beetlejuice's arm. Red stained her dark blouse, having run from the gaping wound across her neck.

_"You two are more than welcome to live out the remainders of your lives here in the Afterlife. Or…if you choose to-."_

_"I want to stay here. I want to stay with him."_

_"Well, come on now…let's hear the lady out."_

_"Your other option…is to serve out the remainder of you sentence in another universe so that you, Beetlejuice, can move on with her. You can be free of the Afterlife. You would be required to keep a constant vigil on Miss Deetz to ensure her safety. But once your sentence is up and once Fate steps in once more, you both will be free to move on."_

_"Well, it's settled then. I stay here. I stay with you. I want to be with you, Beetlejuice…always."_

_"I want to be with you too, Babes. Why don't you go on ahead to the waiting room. I'll finish up here and be right behind ya."_

Lydia doubled over, promptly emptying the contents of her stomach. She didn't stop until her body was wracked by dry heaves, unable to force back the overwhelming sickness. Trembling, she sat back against the tree. She hugged herself tightly, willing the world around her to be still and for the chaos in her mind to be silent.

Her and Beetlejuice-.

In another time, in some other place, they'd been as close as two people could possibly be. She had loved him. No…she _did_ love him.

She slapped a hand over her mouth to mute the wretched sob she was unable to stop. Everything suddenly hurt too much – her heart, her head, her chest. She loved him and instead of being together in the Afterlife…he'd sent her here. He's stayed behind to do paperwork. That's what he'd told her. He'd lied.

Lydia curled into herself, crying uncontrollably, her entire body shuddering with each ragged breath. Why had he sent her back? They could have been happy. They could have been together. Instead, he'd sent her to this other universe, to a life where he'd been nothing more than a goofy best friend and sidekick taking her on one crazy adventure after another.

Something must have happened. Juno must have said something after she'd left. Something had to have stopped him from following her out.

Lydia pulled herself together, scrubbed the tears from her cheeks and pushed herself up. She clung to the tree for support, her legs unsteady underneath her. She felt extremely sluggish, her mind bogged down with memories, but the splitting feeling that ran from the base of her skull to her forehead down behind her eyes was starting to subside to a dull throb.

She made her way slowly to her bike and, not trusting herself to drive it, trudged home with a white-knuckled grip on the handle bars.

With every step she took, anticipation built. He would be waiting for her. She was sure of it. How was she going to handle facing him and knowing everything they'd done together, knowing that the him he was now was a façade that he'd put on for a young, impressionable girl? Granted, over the years he'd become more laid back and less crazed, more cryptic and sarcastic with one liners that didn't leave her rolling her eyes. Minor shifts here and there and had she known what she knew now, she would understand that he was reverting to something he was far more used to.

By the time she'd reached her property line, her steps had quickened considerably. By the time she hit the yard she was nearly running. She dropped her bike two yards shy of the front steps and sprinted up them, not caring that she would catch hell from Delia for being irresponsible and not putting her bike in the garage as she'd been told to do countless times in the past. She couldn't get to him fast enough. Knowing what she knew, inundated with the familiarity of her past life, every minute that passed felt like a minute too long.

She ignored the cheerful greetings from her parents and took the stairs two at a time. And then she was at her bedroom door, staring at it like a woman looking over a cliff and knowing her fate awaited her at the jagged, rocky bottom. Doubt started attempting to worm its way in.

Squaring her shoulders, she shoved it away. She'd doubted Beetlejuice once. She'd allowed something that wasn't entirely his doing to scare her away for several days and when she'd returned, he'd put all doubts to rest. He had reminded her of what she had already known.

He was her ghost, her soul…the man she knew she was supposed to be with, regardless of how much their relationship would laugh in the face of natural law.

Grabbing the door handle, she turned it and stepped over the threshold. And there he was, hovering in the air between her bed and vanity with his hands behind his head and his booted foot hooked over the opposing knee.

He turned when she entered and popped out of his lounging state. "Lyds! About damn time! What took ya so long? We should have started celebrating _hours_ ago!"

Her mouth opened, but no words came out. They were lodged in her throat, held firmly in place by a thick knot of emotion that was threatening to suffocate her.

Beetlejuice cocked his head to the side and regarded her curiously. "Babes? What's wrong?"

All she could do was stand in the doorway, staring at the man before her with new eyes – eyes that had seen him at his worst, that knew him at his best, that understood the depth of the relationship they'd had at another time.

"Lyds…seriously. What gives?"

She wanted to scream, to hit him, to demand answers. But nothing…_nothing…_could overcome the deep, heart rendering sense of relief. Of feeling like she'd finally come _home. _"How-," she managed to squeak out. "How could you…why didn't you let…I don't-."

Every word came out a breathless, watery, trembling mess complete with helpless hand gestures. She was relatively certain she looked like a lunatic. She couldn't find it in her to care. It didn't matter what she said. What mattered…was what she did, what she gave into. What finally freed her.

Swallowing hard, Lydia shoved the door closed. She crossed the room, each step evoking another twist of nervousness. Beetlejuice watched her warily. Once there was nothing separating them but two measly feet though, she saw what she needed to see – hope, pain and longing all flashing through his dark eyes, each fighting desperately against the walls he'd built up.

A wrenching sob of gratitude tore from her throat as she threw her arms around his neck and caught his lips in a kiss that set her tilting world right. Every horrible, sickening moment from the graveyard until now was nothing more than a distant memory filed far back among those she now remembered.

Beetlejuice's hands came to her face, cradling it gently, reverently, as if she were some fine piece of art that he was terrified to shatter. But he kissed her with no such reservations. She could taste his desperation, his need, his love. It filled her and she cried from the sheer beauty of it.

"Why?" she implored in a thick, pitiable voice. Pulling back only far enough to leave a breath of space between them, she framed his face with her hands and stroked the stubble covered skin. "Why did you send me here?"

"Keeping you wasn't right, Lyds. It would have cost you more than you can even realize," he whispered harshly. "And damn it, I might be a real ass but when it comes to you…I just don't have it in me to be that guy."

She wanted to say she understood. She wanted to say so much. But she couldn't manage a thing. Instead, she pulled him down and welcomed the feel of his cool lips once more moving over hers. His arms came around her, crushing her to him. And he tasted like…cigarettes and caramel macchiato. Up until now, she hadn't realized just how much she missed that taste.

He moved her to the bed where she was more than willing to be, her body reacting to him in a way that should have terrified her. But that body had memories too…scandalous, passion filled memories that remembered the feel of his hands across her skin.

Before they could go any further, she pushed him back. He looked down at her and she smiled because he didn't look impatient or angry. He looked like a man who'd been freed of his sentence and was now able to be with the woman he'd loved.

"What now?"

"What _not_ now," he returned with a wicked grin that set her blood on fire. "We've got a lifetime babe. You and me." He twined his fingers through hers and lowered his mouth to her neck, his teeth grazing over the flesh. He countered the sizzling moment with a sweetness that only she knew he had, resting his forehead against hers. "We've got all the time in this world…and the next."

This world and the next. To Lydia Deetz, nothing had ever sounded better.

And a final word:

I'm not finished in this fandom. I love one shots with these two and have a few that I've started with inspiration from other amazing authors like Our Lady Juno and Melody Winters. So hopefully I haven't seen the last of these two.  
I can't thank all of you enough for your reviews, your support, your patience and your continued appreciation for this fic. You guys are amazing and it was a true pleasure keeping you all entertained with this.


	25. Chapter 25

A/N: So...yeah, I'm an indecisive author and that last chapter lacked closure. A little revamp...and here's some closure. Makes me feel much better about leaving the story. :)

**The Real Epilogue**

Beetlejuice couldn't let her go. After hours of reacquainting himself with her body, hours of listening to her cry, scream, moan and whisper his name, hours of drying the tears from her face and telling her that he loved her as many times as either of them needed to hear it, he could not take his hands from her body. As she slept, he held her, terrified that if he let go, everything would just stop. She would go back to not knowing what they had been, her memories would, once more, be locked away, and he'd be damned if he was going to let that happen. Ten long fucking years of faking it, of putting on some ridiculous act to maintain a distance deemed "friendship worthy" between them…there was no way he was going back to that.

He shifted his weight and Lydia curled further into him, her manicured hand splaying over his bare chest. She sighed softly, the beginnings of his name slipping through her parted lips and he quickly covered them, grinning down at her. He would never admit it to a soul living or dead, but he has _missed_ having her like this. When she was sated and sleeping, her dark lashes casting the barest of shadows over her pale cheek bones, when she unconsciously showed the depth of trust she had in him…he had missed it.

He brushed his fingertips over her forehead, the hair sifting back and joining the midnight tresses that fell over the pillow behind her head. Aside from why, she hadn't asked him a thing. Well…that wasn't true. He very clearly remembered her asking…no…_begging_…for more. But aside from those first few questions, she hadn't mentioned at all what had suddenly shifted and allowed her to have her memories back. He knew she would have questions. Hell, he had questions. What _had_ happened?

As if someone or some_thing_ had known his exact trail of thought, the temperature in the room dropped quickly. A frown pursed Lydia's brow and she moved even closer, seeking warmth though she would find none from him.

Beetlejuice pulled the blankets up around her with one hand, tightening his grip on her with the other. If anyone had come for him, they'd have a hell of a time. He hadn't used his full power in _years_ and just thinking of the opportunity to do so made him thirsty for blood.

"It's borderline necrophilia, you know."

Beetlejuice turned, his lips pealing back in a snarl of hostility. "What do _you_ want, ya hag?" he hissed.

Leaning against the wall beside him and looking irritatingly professional, as always, was Juno. Delicately ashing the slender cigarette between her two bony fingers, she pushed away from the wall. "Relax, Beetlejuice."

He wouldn't do a damn thing she told him to. His fingers itched to juice the ever-loving hell out of her, to make her scream and writhe in pain. "I did _exactly_ what you told me to do. I kept her safe, I kept a fucking distance. I think I've _more_ than served my damn time. If you think-."

"I think," she shot back in clipped tones, effectively cutting him off. "That you've served your sentence, Beetlejuice."

The fight went out of him, replaced by an unsettling emotion. Gratitude. It sat thick in his stomach and made him ill. "What?"

"Your sentence…has been served. You are, by no means, a free man. But the sentence you owe the Afterlife has been fulfilled."

For once in his nonexistence, he had no words. To thank her felt wrong. To slander her feel equally so. He had…nothing.

"For what it's worth," she murmured, lifting her cigarette to take an unnecessary drag before continuing, "You did the right thing. I know that's unnatural for you. But…you did do the right thing. Lydia would have suffered a lifetime knowing the fate of her father had she stayed. She never would have forgiven herself. And although she would never say it, she never would have forgiven you. Her afterlife would be exactly what it should be…suffering for her selfishness. What you gave up saved her from that. You might not think the ten years was worth it…but trust me when I tell you that it was." A ghost of a smile curved her thin lips. "Enjoy your time here. And I hope to _never_ see you in my office again. Goodbye, Beetlejuice."

With an airy hiss, she left, the smoke from her cigarette obscuring her figure until there was nothing left but the lingering sulfuric scent of death and paperwork.

"Fuck me," Beetlejuice said after a while, shaking his head and frowning. That was it. Just like that…he was a free man.

"Beetlejuice-."

He looked down into Lydia's tear filled eyes. Tear filled eyes that promised him her lifetime.

"Lyds…how much-."

"All I needed to."

She sat up and slid into his lap, her legs straddling his waist. Her hands brushed his face, her fingers twined in his hair. "I never thought I'd see the day where you unselfishly chose someone over yourself."

"I do a lot of shit I wouldn't when it comes to you, babes," he admitted freely, stroking her back with the tips of his fingers and reveling in the way she shivered under his touch.

Her gaze turned soft enough to briefly tamp down the desire she'd evoked by the simple touch of her bare skin against his. Her lips fluttered briefly over his and she murmured in a low, nearly inaudible voice, "thank you."

He would say it once. Only once, and only for her.

"You're welcome."

"That had to be difficult," Lydia muttered with a little smirk.

He grinned back, anticipation building in his gut, his hands tightening around her hips. "Hardest damn thing I've had to do in ten years, Babes."

"Maybe you should do something easy then. You know…counter balance it and all that good stuff."

Her eyes were full of suggestion, her body warm and ready. His grin turned downright wolfish and he twisted until she lay beneath him.

"Babes, when it comes to you, the only thing that's ever easy…is lovin' ya."

Tears glistened in the glow of the moonlight filtering through her windows, slipped from her eyes as she closed them, pulled him down to her and whispered, "I love you too, Beej."


End file.
